


This Cancer Called Friendship

by Edgelord (lostlikeme)



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternate Universe, Asphyxiation, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Canon-Typical Violence, Eridan is OOC, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Homophobic Language, Human and Troll Sexuality Crisis, Internalized Homophobia, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Multi, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Quadrant Confusion, Quadrant Vacillation, Recreational Drug Use, Sexism, Sexual Content, Sloppy Makeouts, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Teenage Drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 55,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostlikeme/pseuds/Edgelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dirk Strider, and you've just been diagnosed with cancer. Whoop-dee-frickin-doo. It's not like your hotshot, movie director older brother gives two shits about you anyway. Besides, between furiously jerking off to thoughts of your ex-best friend and running a blog dedicated to your sexual attraction to puppets, you're pretty fucking sure you were already doomed. </p><p>Your former friends are too caught up in their own drama: Jane with her pregnancy scare and glaringly obvious self-esteem issues, Roxy who just messaged a tit pic to half the student body (as if being an alcoholic isn't enough), and you aren't even going to talk about Jake, the boy who broke his leg falling out of a tree and befriended a cherub with a similar handicap. </p><p>The only friend you have left is a depressed, agoraphobic troll with whom you chat with online, and he's too busy cultivating a hate-boner for his dubstep-loving downstairs neighbor and worrying about his drug peddling moirail's recent arrest to give you any time. It doesn't help that you've got the worst angel-demon troll tagteam nagging you to death during your final days. </p><p>Can your life become anymore unintentionally ironic? Probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Your name is Dirk Strider, and quite frankly, you’ve grown tiresome of the tedious, superfluous horseshit that you’ve been forced to endure as of late. And by tedious, superfluous horseshit you don’t mean the unfortunate gift of terminal illness that god has so affectionately bestowed upon you. No, by tedious superfluous horseshit you mean the two debatably sentient beings that are currently arguing above your hospital bed.

You were diagnosed with cancer exactly eight months ago, and it’s gone nowhere but downhill from there.

When the doctor inhaled sharply and acknowledged your disease out loud, you weren’t precisely sure how to react. You know how people expected you to react. Your teachers were definitely waiting for you to have a nervous breakdown in the middle of class, waiting for you to burst into tears and throw a desk, as if being diagnosed with cancer is some kind of universal synonym for neurotic psycho. Dave probably hoped that you would open up and talk to him about it, cry on his shoulder so that the two of you could experience some veritable brotherly bonding. Not that Dave is around enough to offer you a shoulder to cry on anyway.

You don’t have any friends, but you think that if you did, they might try to distract you from your increasingly shortening lifespan by acting overly cheerful and self-absorbed, or, more plausibly, by offering you an alcoholic beverage to drown your shock in, or a cake so that you can eat your nonexistent feelings of despondency and despair. They'd probably pity you, too, which is something you don’t want to consider at all. You don’t want pity from anyone, much less your nonexistent hypothetical friends.

Aforementioned pseudo-cognizant beings Kankri and Cronus would likely protest not being listed as friends, but they aren’t your friends even in the most ambiguous definition of the word. You consider their relationship to you as a strictly parasitic one, although you haven’t quite determined what it is that they currently leech from you aside from your energy and general desire to live. You do know what they’ll gain from you if you side with either of them--your soul. 

You’re still not entirely sure if you believe in the existence of souls, metaphysical or otherwise. In fact, there are still some days when you are positive that this all part of some exceedingly elaborate prank. Some sort of ruse that’s supposed to counteract your atheism and drag you through this religious experience that forces you into believing in God and repenting before this autoimmune disease kills you, and it’s inexplicably too late for your soul to be saved.

The only reason you can conclude that it is not the case is because if you were religious, you would regard their entire existence in two words: hellaciously blasphemous. You're not sure which fictional belief system’s holy book Kankri and Cronus crawled out of, because they fail to fit the profiles of most eastern religions and in your opinion they’re only dangling onto christianity by a delicate, fraying thread.

You hate to refer to Kankri and Cronus as an angel and demon, primarily because it shames all the traditional folklore and pre-established tropes. Kankri is an angel in only the vaguest, barest sense of the word, in the way he attempts to represent all that is intrinsically good in humanity. More frequently, he fails entirely, and Cronus is just as poor a representation of all that is inherently evil. Good and evil being loosely used terms, as you believe that neither exist nor matter, because at the end of the day you know everything that happens is entirely arbitrary and meaningless.

You have a surprisingly nihilistic view of life for someone your age, but you don’t really worry about it much. You’re used to being ahead of the curve.

You don’t get what the big deal is. If it were up to you, you’d let your soul hang out in purgatory for the eternity of your afterlife, just to piss everyone off and keep all the mythological creatures on the edge of their seats with all the will-he-won't-he bullshit. As if you’re some kind of girl in love with a guy in an anime and everyone is still waiting for you to confess your feelings.

“Hey kitten,” Cronus says, smirking as though he's just said something entirely more perverse. He might as well start calling you sexpot or fuckdoll, with the lewd, sexually charged undercurrent he manages to shoot into everything he says. You wonder if all demons are inherently sexual creatures, or if Cronus is just a rare breed.

“Hello Dirk,” Kankri says, and though he says your true name and his voice is smooth as honey, he doesn’t fool you. He's just as manipulative as Cronus, and once you realized how he plays the game it’s obvious that his poker face is just as poor. You think the only reason he tries not to act like he isn’t God’s gift to the world is because he knows he is, similar to the way a woman likes to enter a room with all the tact and beauty of a rising sun and mutter, “What, this old thing?” just to make the rest of the women in the room feel insecure.

You manage a pathetically weak nod where you would ordinarily offer scathing sarcasm. This last round of chemotherapy hasn't been kind, has sucked whatever energy you had left in your body out through your brain with a straw. You have a migraine that makes having your head bashed against the wall sound like a joyride, and the fluorescent lighting in the room is only exacerbating your condition. 

You’d tell one of them to hit the light switch, but it’s not worth hearing another of Kankri’s diatribes about the health risks that come with a lack of light, or one of Cronus’ flirtatious quips about what kind of an afterlife you really prefer, like your preference for a dark room when you have a throbbing headache is some kind of a wink and nudge that says, “Ooh, Cronus, take my soul now!” Cronus thinks it's funny to insinuate things about your soul based on every little move you make. You’ve gotten careful about eating dark chocolate in front of him, just so you don’t have to hear the same old comment every time, about how if you like putting dark things in your mouth, he can definitely offer you something even better.

“Visiting hours are over,” you finally manage wearily, but Cronus just rolls his eyes and Kankri gives you that condescending smile that is just short of saying “sweetie” and patting you reassuringly on the arm. You want to punch them both.

“You know I don't play by the rules,” Cronus says, giving you a wink and a crooked smile, like, whoa, back up, we got a badass over here.

Kankri rolls his eyes even more dramatically than Cronus did, which, given Cronus’ current drama queen status, you didn’t think was possible.

“Sometimes we have to bend the rules for the greater good,” Kankri explains. 

It's the shallowest excuse you’ve heard for breaking and entering a children's hospital all week. You’re starting to suspect that's all it takes to get into heaven—a shitty excuse wrapped up in a half-assed idiom.

“Yeah right,” you say, rolling your eyes.

Kankri wants to protest, so much that you can nearly see the indignation rise in his eyes, but he doesn't say anything.

“I'm not agreeing to anything yet,” you say. You know that if you just agree with one of them they'll stop bothering you and you'll be alone again, left to pretend that Lil Cal can actually hear you when you talk to him. You’re unsure as to why that doesn’t sound as appealing as it used to.

“Now Dirk, I don't believe that it's fair for you to presume you know what I'm going to ask.”

“Come on cat, you’re worse than I am,” Cronus says, smirking like he's any better. That's what's wrong with them--they always think they're better than one another.

“Besides,” Cronus continues, “We all know he's just gonna say yes to me anyway.”

Kankri scoffs.

“I'm kinda irresistible.”

You sigh and glance away, not because you’re actually bothered but because awkwardly glancing away is obviously the best route to take to cover up your uncertain sexuality.

“You're completely classless,” Kankri starts, before catching himself. 

“Not to imply that I'm ranking anyone by social, economic, or racial class, but rather, I was referring to...” You stop listening. It'd be almost endearing if it wasn't already so annoying.

“I was kiddin’ sugar. This cat over here knows the real reason he's gonna stick with me is so this nasty disease don't get him first.” Cronus laughs fondly, as if you’ve already agreed to sell your soul (the one you still don’t believe exists) in exchange for the short human life span you’d be granted in return. If you did have a soul, you would definitely negotiate that prospect, because the deal is clearly on a sliding scale leaning too far in Cronus’ favor to be a fair trade.

Kankri lets out a screech and his face gets stuck in this horrified expression that would be hilarious if he wasn't following it up with an explanation.

“That is the exact definition of a triggering conversation! You have no idea how blatantly talking about the possible death of Dirk may cause him to react! That could have sent him into an anxiety attack, or worse. It is this kind of conversation that we should only ever enter into with explicit permission, or at the very least exercise with exceed caution and proper trigger warnings beforehand!”

Kankri gives you a genuinely apologetic look so full of pity that you’re surprised his emotional cup doesn't overfloweth. The frank discussion of your impending death doesn't actually bother you. You came to grips with the fact that you would die someday when you were five years old--when you discovered your pet hamster’s lifeless body in its cage, laying peacefully beside a pile of sunflower seeds. Since then it has only been a matter of when and where.

You try not to look at them, mostly because for nonhuman half-moronic hallucinations they’re both exceedingly attractive in different ways that you aren’t ready to acknowledge. Besides, you haven’t jacked off in three days.

You decide to look around the room instead. There's a small countertop and a sink across from your bed, a little bathroom with a toilet and a shower stall inside, and the shower even has a plastic seat and metal bar for you to hold on to so you don’t fall and kill yourself when you attempt to drop down and get your eagle on. The walls are a robin’s egg blue that you don’t especially care for, and despite the beautiful view of Houston and the tempting cawing of the crows, you don’t care much for looking out the window either. You’d stare at the ceiling, but you’ve already memorized how many tiles it has. 

The room doesn’t hold your interest for long, and you end up looking at them anyway. At least it’s better than staring at yourself in the mirror above the sink--at your pale skin and dark sunglasses (like the shades covering up your eyes make you any less diseased), at the baseball cap you wear on your head (like it makes you any less bald beneath it.)

They're still arguing, and even with snarls and rage, you can see the sexual tension in the room like a sharp bolt of lightening. Kankri has his arms crossed in front of his bright red sweater, and Cronus is dishing out these fake apologies with all the sincerity of a politician, trying to wrap his arm around Kankri’s shoulders with the subtlety of an eighth grader in a movie theater on his first date.

“C’mon babe, don’t be like that.” 

Kankri shakes his head and shoves Cronus’ arm off his shoulder. You can never tell if his advances are serious, if he’s naturally this shamelessly flirtatious or if he does it purposefully to get a rise out of people.

“Excuse me, but I find the term “babe” to be completely offensive, and I kindly request that you stop referring to me as such. Furthermore, I would appreciate it if you would keep your hands to yourself, as I am definitely not interested in your advances--concupiscent, caliginous, or otherwise.”

It doesn’t make sense to you that trolls can be angels and demons, given that they’re already trolls, but the one time you mentioned it you received an endless lecture from Kankri on inadvertent close-mindedness and species dysphoria. You still aren’t exactly sure the of the message Kankri was trying to drill into your skull, but it definitely isn’t a situation you want to relive again, so you’ve given up on figuring it out and stopped caring.

Kankri and Cronus are still continuing their passive-aggressive argument, and it’s starting to become annoying enough that you think it might be time to intervene.

“Oh yeah, well it ain't my fault the best you can offer him is everything'll be just peachy keen when he dies. What bullshit.”

Kankri is boiling with rage, and he's trying so hard to keep a cap on it that you’re waiting for his face to turn red like an old-school cartoon, waiting for his rage to bubble until smoke is shooting out of his ears. Kankri's voice is surprisingly even when he calms himself enough to speak.

“First of all, watch your language.” To anyone else it would sound petty, like a mother scolding a child for cursing, but Kankri has a way with shooting a base “shut the fuck up” into the plainest of phrases. Cronus grins.

“Second of all--and no offense is meant by this Dirk--what is the point of a century of mediocre living to an eternity of paradise?”

Cronus scoffs.

“It depends on your idea of paradise. ‘Cause anything where the entrance fee is shoving a stick up my ass ain't no paradise to me.”

“That is completely—” Kankri is struggling for words, for control. You can all but see them lodged in his throat.

“Speak up buttercup, you got your chastity belt wrapped around your throat or somethin’?” And that's all it takes.

“That metaphor is not only completely lewd and inappropriate, it's completely false! Just because your idea of a good time is sexual fornication and alcohol does not mean that my definition of paradise is any less legitimate! In fact, I would say my definition of paradise is generally the more popular and socially accepted definition. Not to shame anyone with a preference for sexual activity as opposed to abstinence and chastity, like myself—”

There are more words on the tip of his tongue, but you already know what they're going to be, and you really don’t need to hear them again.

“I'll make up my mind by the end of the month,” you say, because you figure it’s a good idea to make a decision before your surgery, in case on the off chance that heaven and hell do exist, you’ve got a VIP pass to at least one of them. 

The words hang heavy in the room, stone cold and immediately placating.

“That’s very wise of you Dirk, to make a decision before your--not to trigger you--impending operation. Now, while I am trying to keep my immortal privilege in check, I still think that...”

When you finally convince Cronus and Kankri to leave, the room is eerily silent. The nurse has already given you this evening's dinner--it's chicken, mashed potatoes and jello, and it's as bland and uninteresting as the rest of the hospital. You don’t digest food well most days anyway, so you only pick at the potatoes and leave the rest on your plate. The fluorescent lights are finally off, leaving you to nurse your migraine in front of the faint glow of your laptop screen.

You decide to message Karkat, a troll you met online a year and a half ago through a post about self harm that you really don’t feel like getting into right now. You try to shift your thoughts to something more calming, but instead you end up thinking that despite being the biggest douchebag you’ve ever met, Cronus Ampora is a pretty handsome guy. That naturally reminds you of your first crush--a dorky, glasses wearing boy and the best friend of your older brother--you’d met him when you were seven years old.

You know you aren’t gay, but sometimes you aren't exactly sure if you’re heterosexual either, and you don't really like to think about what that means too much. Instead, you much prefer to analyze others.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] \--

TT: Karkat, when exactly did you realize you were a homosexual?  
CG: I REALLY DON'T HAVE TIME FOR YOUR HUMAN SEXUALITY CRISIS BULLSHIT RIGHT NOW. I'M KIND OF IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING.  
TT: What, in the middle of an expert level on dance dance revolution?  
CG: ACTUALLY, NO. SO WHY DON'T YOU GO SHOVE YOUR HUMAN MEAT STICK IN A BUCKET AND GO FUCK YOURSELF.  
TT: That's not how humans masturbate.  
CG: I KNOW THAT.  
TT: So what is it you're doing?  
CG: WRITING A NOTE.  
TT: Writing a note.  
CG: DID I FUCKING STUTTER?  
TT: Let me rephrase that. That statement was merely to exasperate my disbelief. Why are you writing a note?  
CG: BECAUSE THE ASSHOLE DOWNSTAIRS APPARENTLY DOESN'T UNDERSTAND THE DEFINITION OF THE PHRASE NOISE POLLUTION.  
CG: EITHER THE DISGUSTING FREAK IS ATTEMPTING TO MATE WITH ITS NUTRIENT WASTE GRINDER OR FOR SOME GODFORSAKEN REASON IS TRYING TO COMMUNICATE WITH ITS LONG DEAD AND PROBABLY EVEN LESS TOLERABLE LUSUS.  
TT: I take it someone finally rented the apartment downstairs?  
CG: WHAT GAVE YOU THAT IDEA?  
CG: WAS IT WHEN I MENTIONED THAT MY NEW ASSBLOOD NEIGHBOR IS A COMPLETE MORON WHO DECIDED TO LITERALLY TAKE A SHIT ON ALL SENSE OF COMMON COURTESY?  
CG: NOT ONLY DID HE INVADE THIS PATHETIC EXCUSE OF A HIVE THAT I CALL A HOME WITH HIS FILTHY NOISE WASTE, BUT HE ALSO HAS THE PURE AUDACITY TO FORCE ME TO TAKE PART IN IT.  
TT: What exactly is the problem? Are you trying to tell me he's too loud?  
CG: NO, I'M TRYING TO TELL YOU HE'S TOO GODDAMN GOOD NATURED.  
CG: WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK DIPSHIT?  
CG: THE GUY SAW THE LINE BETWEEN LOUD AND EAR SHATTERING AND DECIDED TO INVENT A WHOLE NEW FUCKING TIER.  
CG: SERIOUSLY. ITS LIKE THE GUY JUST CREATED A NEW DECIBEL LEVEL.  
CG: THE FLOOR SHAKES. MY APARTMENT IS MADE OUT OF CONCRETE.  
CG: DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LOUD SOMETHING HAS TO BE TO SHAKE CONCRETE?  
CG: NO. NO YOU FUCKING DON'T BECAUSE YOU'RE TOO COMFY IN YOUR SHITTY LITTLE HOSPITAL BED LETTING THE SOUND OF BEEPING ANGELS SING YOU TO SLEEP ON A MOTHERFUCKING CLOUD.  
TT: That statement about the comfort level of the hospital beds is not only inaccurate, but completely irrelevant. Have you even tried verbal communication with your neighbor, before jumping head first into a world of thinly concealed insults and passive aggressive notes?  
CG: NO. AND BESIDES, I’M BEING POLITE ABOUT IT.  
TT: Are you sure that’s even an option you’re capable of? I’ve looked through the manual twice now and I’ve yet to see any information regarding a “polite” setting.  
CG: HA FUCKING HA.  
CG: I’M WRITING SUCH A POLITE, KINDLY WORDED LETTER THAT EVEN READING IT WILL MAKE YOU WANT TO GO OUT AND BUY A DRESS JUST YOU CAN PRACTICE YOUR CURTSIES.  
CG: NOW SHUT YOUR NOISEFLAP, I NEED TO CONCENTRATE.  
TT: My noiseflap has been firmly shut since the beginning of this conversation.  
CG: YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN YOU INCOMPETENT BULGELICKER. I’M LEAVING NOW.  
TT: Why? Is me forcing you to confront your tendency to overreact too much for you to handle?  
CG: NO, I HAVE TO GO PIN THIS NOTE ON HIS DOOR BEFORE HE GETS BACK FROM WORK, JACKASS. CG: I'LL TALK TO YOU LATER.  
TT: Bye.

  
\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] is an idle chum --  


The conversation doesn’t last as long as you’d like, but you figure it’s about time you update your blog anyway. You don’t have that many followers, and you doubt anyone has noticed your lack of posts, but still, you feel a sort of personal obligation to keeping the few meager fans you do have up to date on your private life and intimate puppet escapades. 

Like usual, today’s post is overflowing with an overdose of irony. (Though you’ve been using certain phrases for so long you’re not quite sure if you can call them “ironic” anymore. You try not to think about this too much, lest you end up in some sort of ironic half assed double reacharound.)

You sift through your askbox, idly answering questions like “when will u upload moar puppets???” and “can i commission you?” until you get to what you really were really looking for: the hatemail. You get a big kick out of publishing it and snidely ridiculing the douchebags who send it to you--you’re a young person dying of a terminal illness, for christ sakes. In particular, you like shaming your worst and favorite fan.

As far as you can tell, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of your hatemail comes from one anonymous user with a penchant for typing in capslock with one finger on the shift key. Even without the typing quirk, you would recognize the broken grammar and odd, stilted use of vulgarity. From what you’ve gathered about troll romance from Karkat, someone out there is rocking a hate boner for you the size of Mount Everest.

Nothing he says actually hurts, though you aren’t particularly fond of the reference to suicide. You’re not one to bitch and ask the people you follow to tag their posts with trigger warnings, but posts and images about suicide make you a little uneasy nonetheless. 

As far as you can tell, this asshole is really in hate with you. If you respond with equal amounts of ferocity and emotion you’ll only end up egging him on. At least, that’s what you think. You don’t really know all that much about troll romance because Karkat only makes sense half the time, and since there isn’t exactly a big non-troll audience interested in troll cinema, most of the movies you’ve seen have subtitles that could make 4kids Entertainment look like a quality company.

Anyway, you’re about to reply to this guys hatemail with a big gold star that says “You Tried” on it in comic sans, but you notice a bright red notification at the top of your screen. You know it’s your mystery hatecrush before your mouse even hovers over the mail icon. 

At first you aren’t even sure what the hell he’s talking about, because you don’t smoke weed and you can’t imagine when you ever insinuated that you did. But then everything falls into place. You don’t waste any time dallying and decide to respond immediately. You can’t help but passive aggressively goad him--just a little.

It seems that your biggest fan has already responded. You’re not really sure how that’s possible, but you didn’t log on to your blog to debate the laws of space and time.

You’ve never actually done drugs of any sort, but you know enough about them to know that they don’t come in boxes and you don’t ingest them directly. You’re not fond of intoxication in any form--alcohol or drugs--and if the morphine wasn’t completely necessary to block out the pain from chemotherapy, you’d probably reject that too. You don’t like the way it weakens your resolve and dampens your ability to think on your feet, as if you aren’t in control of your own limbs. 

His attempt at rebuttal is amusing if not pointless. You don’t know why you feel the need to spur him on, except that despite his stupidity he’s pretty entertaining and you don’t have much else going for you at the moment.

You figure the best method for pissing him off further is to log off and ignore him completely, so he doesn’t even have the chance to fight back against your clever responses. You’re feeling kind of tired anyway, and you’ve got a big day ahead of you full of sewing and stuffing, so you might as well go to sleep a little early tonight.

  
\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling timaeusTestified [TT] \--  


Or not. Staying up a little later isn’t going to kill you, and you’re almost curious about what Karkat has been up to with his new downstairs neighbor. You can’t wait to see what he’s completely overreacted to next.

CG: THE GUY DOWNSTAIRS IS OFFICIALLY THE BIGGEST ASSHOLE I HAVER EVER SEEN AND I HAVEN’T EVEN MET HIM YET.  
TT: How big of an asshole are we talking here?  
CG: OBNOXIOUSLY BIG. LIKE THE GAPING ASSHOLE OF A PORN STAR WHO JUST FINISHED UP AN ANAL GANGBANG SCENE.  
TT: That’s pretty fucking huge. What was his latest offense?  
CG: ASIDE FROM TRYING TO BLAST MY EARS OFF WITH THAT FUCKING BITCHRACKET, HE RESPONDED TO MY KINDLY WORDED LETTER LIKE A COMPLETE DOUCHEBAG.  
CG: I ACTUALLY PUT TIME AND EFFORT INTO WRITING THAT AND ATTEMPTING TO MAINTAIN CORDIALITY BUT THIS ASSHOLE JUST BLEW ALL SEMBLANCE OF POLITENESS RIGHT OUT OF THE FUCKING WATER.  
TT: Why don’t you just tell me what he wrote?  
CG: UGH. NOW I HAVE TO TYPE THIS CRAP OUT, TOO? WRITING IT THE FIRST TIME AROUND WAS MORE THAN SUFFICIENT TORTURE.  
TT: I can’t validate your rage if I don’t properly understand the situation.  
CG: FINE. THIS IS WHAT I WROTE:  
CG: DEAR DOWNSTAIRS NEIGHBOR,  
CG: WELCOME TO THE DILAPIDATED APARTMENT BUILDING I AM FORCED TO CALL MY HOME. I REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT IN THE TWO SWEEPS I’VE BEEN LIVING HERE NOT ONLY HAS THE QUALITY OF LIVING DECLINED, BUT I’M PRETTY FUCKING SURE THE COCKROACHES HAVE GIVEN UP AND MOVED TO THE ABANDONED LOT DOWN THE STREET WHERE THEY PROBABLY HAVE MORE RELIABLE FACILITIES. AND POSSIBLY EVEN A CEILING THAT DOESN’T LEAK EVERY DAMN TIME GOD DECIDES TO TAKE A PISS.  
CG: IF YOU COULD KEEP THE NOISE DOWN TO A LESS EAR-SHATTERING DECIBEL I COULD NOT ONLY CONTINUE TO ENJOY THE LOVELY SOUNDS OF MY NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBORS INDULGING IN VARIOUS SEXUAL ACTIVITIES, BUT I MIGHT, I JUST MIGHT EVEN BE ABLE TO PRETEND I’M SOMEWHERE ELSE. LAST NIGHT MY LIVING ROOM MEASURED A NINE POINT FIVE ON THE RICHTER SCALE, AND IF IT GETS ANY LOUDER I FEAR THE SHODDY FOUNDATION OF THIS PATHETIC SHELTER MAY CRUMBLE. GIVEN THAT YOU LIVE BELOW ME AND WILL DIE FIRST IF THAT DOES INDEED HAPPEN, YOU MAY WANT TO TAKE THAT INTO CONSIDERATION.  
CG: P.S. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT EAR BLEEDING CRAP YOU KEEP BLASTING ANYWAY? IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU ROUNDED UP THE LOCAL STRAYS AND ARE ATTEMPTING TO DIRECT SOME KIND OF FUCKED UP FELINE CHORUS. DON’T QUIT YOUR DAY JOB ANYTIME SOON.  
TT: That isn’t actually half-bad. Though you definitely could have gone without the “p.s.” at the end. What did he say in response?  
CG: IT’S CALLED DUBSTEP.  
TT: What?  
CG: THAT WAS HIS FUCKING RESPONSE.  
CG: THAT’S ALL HE HAD TO SAY FOR HIMSELF.  
TT: Wow, you’re right. This is definitely an A+ just fisted asshole you have on your hands.  
TT: Dubstep? How dare him enjoy such a thing in the privacy of his own home.  
CG: THAT’S JUST IT. IT ISN’T PRIVATE. HE’S FORCING THE ENTIRE BUILDING TO “ENJOY” IT.  
CG: WHICH, IN CASE YOU CAN’T TELL, I DON’T.  
TT: I assumed that’s what you were insinuating with the use of quotation marks. Maybe you should get some headphones.  
CG: I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO VALIDATE MY ANGER, NOT GIVE ME SHITTY ADVICE.  
TT: Sorry, it’s hard to fault a bro for an excellent taste in music. You know how I feel about “the dubstep.”  
CG: FUCK YOU.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling timaeusTestified [TT]\--

This time you’re really going to sleep, and you’re so sure of it that you even power off your laptop so that you don’t give into the temptation to check your email a third time. You’re on your way to the bathroom so that you can empty your bladder before the night nurse shows up to give you your nightly dose of morphine when your cellphone alerts you that you’ve received a text. 

You snatch it off the stand next to the bed and make your way to the toilet, assuming it’s just Dave texting you something completely useless. He gets a kick out of forwarding you weird chainmail texts that will ensure your death if you don’t sent it to at least ten different people. He also likes to send you pictures of random shit in sepia tone with ironic statements underneath. 

Surprisingly, the text is from someone you don’t already have stored in your phone. Your contacts list is embarrassingly short, so you can’t imagine who managed to get a hold of your number.

Something in your chest sinks at the enthusiasm and atypical capitalization style. You know you’re being melodramatic but you can’t help it, not when you’re already stressed and bald and probably dying to boot. Isn’t that enough? You hope it isn’t who you think it is.

Of course it’s who you think it is. If it were any other way your life just wouldn’t be ironic enough, now would it? You sigh and drop your cellphone on the table beside your bed, and even the loud clattering noise of your phone hitting metal isn’t enough to ward off the unease that’s settled into your stomach.  


You have a list of people a mile long you definitely don’t want to hear from in any format: textual, aural, verbal, or otherwise. Jake ditched-you-when-you-started-chemo English is at the very tippy, precariously high top.


	2. Chapter 2

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you are currently mystified in immeasurable bewilderment over the fact that your new neighbor is an even bigger douchewaffle than the previous one. In comparison, the last waste of space was a holy incarnation plopped right out of God’s feculent shithole itself. Sure, sometimes she played video games too loud, and she was a complete bitch besides, but at least you didn’t have to put up with this.

In retrospect, you think that maybe if you weren’t such a weak, mentally unstable moron, maybe you would have shown your last neighbor an ounce of courtesy and she’d still be living unobtrusively downstairs, instead of this noise-blasting inconsiderate dumbass.

Everything always appears much more clearly in hindsight, which, if anyone asks, is just the universe’s way of slapping you upside your skull and saying I told you so, while pointing and laughing.

You clench your jaw to resist the urge to tear the sheet of paper in your hands down the middle, to stop yourself from shredding it with your claws, or balling it up and tossing it onto the stove so you can pretend that it’s not just a piece of paper burning, no--it’s the downstairs neighbors hopes and dreams, and your well-deserved retribution is every flickering flame that seeks to destroy them.

You tried so hard to be as polite as possible the first time around, wrote the entire message with painstaking slowness in neat, concise print in capital letters, and this grubfisted asshole not only responded in bright red sharpie (as if that wasn’t enough of an underhanded slap at your place, or lack thereof, on the hemospectrum, like you needed another fucking reminder), but the handwriting was chickenscratch too, a fast scrawl of lowercase letters, and only four words, like he didn’t give enough shits to spend more than two and half seconds writing it.

Your second letter is significantly less polite, and the third is definitely balancing on the border between rude and not giving any shits. Your fourth letter--the one you’re on the verge of destroying--is just a thinly veiled fuck you. You reread the note a third time, eyes scanning the paper faster than your thinkpan can actually digest the words. It doesn’t matter. You already know what it says--you wrote most of it, after all. A whole load of bullshit, that’s what. 

DEAR BULGESUCKER,

DID A FLY CRAWL INTO YOUR NOOK AND SPAWN EGGS RECENTLY, OR ARE YOU ALWAYS THIS MUCH OF PEST ATTRACTING SHITSTAIN? PLEASE, ENLIGHTEN ME. I AM DYING TO KNOW HOW ONE PERSON CAN MANAGE TO BE SUCH AN INCONSIDERATE PRICK IN SUCH A SHORT AMOUNT OF TIME. TELL ME, DAVE, WHAT IS YOUR SECRET? DO YOU GUZZLE A BOTTLE OF DOUCHE EVERY MORNING AND EAT A BOWL OF “FUCK YOUS” FOR BREAKFAST?  


OR MAYBE YOU’RE JUST SO DENSE THAT YOU DIDN’T UNDERSTAND MY ORIGINAL REQUEST. WAS I USING WORDS THAT ARE TOO HARD FOR YOUR THINKPAN TO PROCESS? HERE, LET ME GIVE YOU THE BREAK DOWN, THE DUMBASS VERSION: TURN OFF THAT FUCKING NOISE. IF YOU WANT TO DESTROY YOUR OWN PAN AND BREAK YOUR OWN EARDRUMS BY LISTENING TO THAT SHIT, BE MY FUCKING GUEST AND BUY YOURSELF A PAIR OF EARPHONES.  


WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM ANYWAY? DO YOU JUST GET OFF ON FORCING PEOPLE TO LISTEN TO THAT CHAOTIC SHITNOISE? ARE YOU DOWNSTAIRS AS I WRITE THIS, GRINNING AND DOING BACKFLIPS OVER BUCKETS AT THE THOUGHT OF MY MISERY AND SUFFERING? YOU SICK PERVERSE FUCK. HOW ABOUT YOU PUT YOUR BULGE AWAY, CLEAN UP YOUR SLIME, AND GET OVER YOURSELF. YOU AREN'T THE ONLY PERSON TRYING TO LIVE IN THIS SHITHOLE, SO HOW ABOUT YOU SHOW A LITTLE A GODDAMN RESPECT.

-KARKAT VANTAS

His response is even more infuriating than than the previous ones. Half of his scrawl is purposely written overtop of your writing, the red sharpie bleeding through the paper.

dude i legit dont even know what half of this shit means but i definitely cant do backflips and i dont own any buckets

and as for the part about turning down my music  
how about no

dave<3

You scowl, baring your fangs at the offensive bright red letters. Mocking pieces of shit. Your neighbor hasn’t apologized in the slightest, refuses to keep the noise down, and he didn’t even bother to sign his last name, for fuck’s sake. He didn’t tape the note to your door either, you found it face down on the floor in the hallway, wrinkled with a big gray footprint on the back, like the lack of craftsmanship and his half-assed response wasn’t enough of a statement of how much his new neighbor apparently doesn’t give a single flying fuck. The heart at the end of the note is so infuriating it doesn’t even deserve a comment.

You fail to resist the urge and crumble the sheet of paper into a ball and toss it in the general direction of who the fuck cares. You take a deep breath and try not to make the entire thing into a federal fucking issue. The bulgelicker downstairs probably won’t last a month here anyway, especially not in April with the rain coming down like human god has some nookwhiffer building another goddamn ark.

You look around your living room and seethe, a low growl building in your chest. You hate the place you live in almost as much as you hate yourself for turning it into a prison. It wasn’t that bad of a place before, when your brother lived here with you, sleeping in the second bedroom that now houses nothing but emptiness and old memories. Now it’s just full of shit your brother used to own, stuff you hate to look at but can’t bear to throw away.

The bars on the windows feel less like protection and more like well-deserved punishment, and the bright red curtains he hung up to cover them only draw attention to what’s lurking behind them. It feels as though everything in your living block is smirking at you derisively, the recycled couch laughing at you for wasting ninety percent of your life sleeping, the television cackling at your inability to succeed, your husktop making jokes with your electronic gaming systems about how much of a general fuckup you are. 

As you feel yourself about to dive face first into a wave of self-pity that only incites more self-hatred, your lamp rattles on the coffee table and the light bulb flickers out. The entire room begins to vibrate with a low hum as the song your neighbor is playing downstairs proceeds to drop the bass. 

Four minutes later eighties pop music invites itself into your apartment and proceeds to have non-consensual coitus with your eardrums.

Just short of resigning yourself to silently sob dejectedly in the darkness, the song changes from a melody about girls just attempting to enjoy themselves, to a song about a girl crying during her own birthday party. You don’t understand how your life can be this unintentionally ironic.

You can’t properly wallow in your own mutant tears and hatred with this eighties teenybopper bullshit playing. Rolling your eyes, you decide you need to relax. You text the only person who’s ever been inside your hive besides yourself:

Your drug dealer. 

You tap at the touchscreen with trembling fingers. You aren’t sure if you’re trembling due to rage or an impending anxiety attack. You tell yourself it’s the former.

  


You practice the deep breathing exercises that you learned from your last therapist, and they’re doing exactly fuckall to help your trembling. You aren’t even exactly sure what you’re being so melodramatic about, all you know is that you hate your downstairs neighbor and you hate your goddamned apartment and you hate your fucking self, all in a completely platonic, nonsexual way, and you don’t want to think about it anymore.

The two minutes it takes for him to respond feels longer than any wait you’ve ever had to endure, and for a panicked one hundred and twenty seconds you fear that he isn’t going to respond, that he’s knocked out cold, or worse, he’s finally seen the error of his ways and gotten himself a moirail that doesn’t need coddling every two and half seconds like a wailing grub.

You relax visibly at his familiar quirk, as retarded as it is it reminds you of calmer times, times when you weren’t so fucked up and broken. Okay, maybe you were always this fucked up, but at least you used to have a better handle on it.

Your breathing has returned to normal and despite the fact that Cyndi Lauper is still blasting into your living block, you already feel a little better. You’re not sure what you would do if you didn’t have the world’s best and worst moirail. You probably would have gone through with ending your own existence sweeps ago. You pick your phone back up and hastily send him another message.

Gamzee replies to your text too quickly to have gotten the “please” that you added on at the last minute, but he says yes anyway. You try not to spend the entire twenty six minutes it takes him to arrive at your hive stressing. You fail miserably. 

You can’t stop thinking about Gamzee and your moirallegiance in general, about how unhealthy it probably is. It’s definitely not like the movies you love, the ones where the protagonist falls horns over heels pale for his best friend and the other troll returns the feelings with such an intensity that it’s like their quadrant was fated in the stars. No, it’s a lot less romantic than that and a hell of a lot more pathetic. You met Gamzee a year and a half ago mid-panic attack on a public bus on your way back from therapy. He reeked of marijuana and you asked him with shaking fingers if he could sell you some. It is like a movie, when you think about it, just not like the ones you like to watch.

It’s more like one of those pretentious, independently directed films, one that’s shooting for artsy but fall three notches short and slams its ugly head against inconsequential purple prose drivel instead. The artsy movies always seem bloated with an atmosphere of nihilism, like the film just took an AIDs infested dirty needle and injected itself full of melancholy philosophy and utter bullshit. There are ones that are hopeful enough, storylines about people more broken than you finding themselves, two lost souls pale-papping each other into something that resembles sanity. Either way, you don’t like dwelling on those thoughts.

You are thinking about it though, and you can’t help but think that your pale quadrant would the perfect plot premise for one of those fucked up movies, what with the way you aren’t sure if Gamzee actually pacifies or he just sells you the plant that does. You stress about the one part of your life that is supposed to be relaxing, because you’re you, and because there’s a distinct possibility that you aren’t pale for Gamzee at all, that your brain is just so fogged up with dopamine every time he’s around that it doesn’t actually give enough fucks to know the difference.

You don’t stop thinking about your poor relationship choices (yeah right, as if you’ve got options, you’re lucky you’ve even managed to fill one quadrant) until you hear Gamzee let himself into your hive, keys rattling as the doorknob turns. What little calm had washed over you from texting with Gamzee is gone, but you force yourself to remain calm and not flip the fuck out at the sight him.

He looks as bad as he always does, too thin and too tall with grease in his hair and a haze in his eyes that tells you he’s not sober. Well at least you can thank whatever imaginary omnipotent asshole that resides in the sky for small miracles. He’s still wearing his face paint and that’s the part you hate the most, the way it gets everywhere and leaves trails of white slime in its wake, leaving your apartment looking like some kind of neurotic albino slug just dragged its boneless body across all of your personal belongings every time he visits. 

He stares at you from the top of the stairs and his mouth transforms into one of those slow, lazy smiles. You refuse to smile back as he heads towards you.

“Hey asshole, see you brought your slimy face paint. I can’t wait to spend all day tomorrow cleaning it off of every fucking thing I hold dear.”

Gamzee’s smile breaks into a grin as you speak, showing off sharp, pointed teeth and two fangs that hang a little lower. It should be intimidating, a display of how much he can hurt you, but with Gamzee it just reminds you of a walrus or a bucktoothed child, dopey and sort of off-kilter.

“Hey my pale motherfucker,” he says as you stand and walk to meet him, staring up at him in the middle of your living block, your forehead just barely reaching his shoulder.

“Did you miss me?” he asks, and you scowl.

“Fuck you,” you say, wrapping your arms around his middle. You press your face against his dark indigo hoodie as he hugs you back, inhaling the familiar scent of smoke and illegal opiates. You swallow and blink rapidly against the fabric, because no, you're not going to cry like a just hatched wriggler. Not again.

“Come on brother,” Gamzee says slowly, drawing out the words like he can barely remember how they’re supposed to sound. 

“You wanna make a pile?” He doesn’t wait for your answer, just heads for the closet where you keep all the stuffed animals. You’d be embarrassed if you hadn’t been through this shit with Gamzee twice in the past week. He pulls open the stiff door and a mountain of plushies avalanche out, a rockslide of bright colors and button eyes.

“Let’s up and get our motherfucking jam on, best friend.”

Two romcoms, three bong hits, and several loud, extensive rants later, you’re feeling significantly better. Your head isn’t pounding anymore like a construction crew is using a jackhammer to get through your cranium and take a look at your cerebrum, and you think you have enough endorphins in your blood to balance out the unending despair that you usually find yourself melodramatically trapped in. You’re even okay when Gamzee tells you, shit brother, it’s almost four thirty am, I gotta get my leave on. He kisses your forehead before letting himself out of your hive. 

You miss him as soon as he’s gone, even find yourself wishing some seriously stupid shit, like the two of you sharing a hive together so he’d never have to leave. He could pap you when your brain thinks too much and goes into panic mode, and you could calm his ragestorms when he wakes up in the morning sober, like his personal troll messiah. You decide to stop thinking those thoughts immediately, because you’re afraid of where they’ll lead, that with your kind of luck you’ll end up flushed as red as a cherry, pining for a drugged troll in almost as bad a position as yourself.

You know you don’t need a matesprit, but fuck, do you want one. You haven’t had one since high school when you dated the blind girl whose name still hurts to remember, and even that had been an unstable, label-less sort of thing, black one morning and red the next. That isn’t what you want. You sink lower into your pile, curling into yourself beneath the blankets and stuffed animals, feeling useless and pathetic. 

You need to get a grip on reality, but every time you try to reach out for it you feel like you’re grasping at straws. You breathe in shakily. You’re almost finished the third movie, in the middle of your favorite part when troll Will Smith finally realizes that he’s flipped red for his kismesis, and they have the most romantic, loving, and artfully shot pailing scene that you’ve ever witnessed. You aren’t going to cry, you promised Gamzee you wouldn’t and--

That fucking bastard. The last moments of the film are ruined as the music beneath your apartment starts back up. The bass drops, and all hopes of salvaging the scene are lost. Your brain whirrs in motion as you try to figure out why the ear-grating noise sounds so fucking familiar, so fucking recognizable that--it's Pokemon. Your downstairs neighbor is currently blasting Pokemon music into your hive and you don't know why but that's just the final fucking straw.

In an instant, you can’t even remember what you were upset about. All you can feel is seething rage for your downstairs neighbor and the lack of consideration he is currently showcasing. You want to charge downstairs and slam your fist against his door and scream at his face when he answers it, but you know you can’t, won’t do that, so you settle for the next best thing, snatching a sheet of paper out of your notebook with enough ferocity that it rips at the bottom.

You don’t care.

Your hand shakes as you write, and all the fucks you gave about neat handwriting and legibility have been tossed out the window. You hope that when they hit the ground they’ll break, and you’ll never give any fucks ever again.

FUCK YOU,

YOU ARE AN EVEN BIGGER PIECE OF SHIT THAN I PREVIOUSLY HYPOTHESIZED. QUICK, CALL UP GUINNESS, BECAUSE I THINK YOU JUST BROKE A WORLD FUCKING RECORD. YOU ARE SUCH A HUGE PILE OF FESTERING FECES THAT YOU DESERVE TO BE LISTED AS THE EIGHTH WONDER OF THE WORLD. YOU CAN ATTRACT TOURISTS WHILE SMALL CHILDREN POINT AT YOU AND HOLD THEIR NOSES SO THEY DON’T GAG ON THE SMELL OF YOUR ASSHOLERY. HOW CAN YOU EVEN FUNCTION WITH THAT SMELL ASSAULTING YOUR NOSTRILS? YES, IT IS THAT PUNGENT.  


WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR DEAL ANYWAY? WERE YOU HATCHED THIS MUCH OF A DOUCHEBAG, OR IS IT SOMETHING THAT YOU DEVELOPED INTO AND NURTURED OVER TIME? DO YOU HAVE A KINK FOR RUINING OTHER TROLLS LIVES, OR ARE YOU JUST SO DESPERATE TO FILL A CONCUPISCENT QUADRANT THAT YOU’RE WILLING TO PURPOSELY PISS OFF ANY TROLLS WITHIN A FIVE MILE RADIUS?

WHATEVER IT IS, I’M GETTING SICK OF IT. SO GODDAMN SICK OF IT THAT I’M ABOUT TO VOMIT UP MY OWN INNARDS JUST TO ESCAPE HAVING TO LISTEN TO THIS SHIT. I SWEAR, IF I HAD A QUARTER FOR EVERY TIME YOU BLASTED THAT PAN FRYING MUSIC I’D BE RICH ENOUGH TO MOVE THE FUCK OUT OF THIS HELLHOLE AND NEVER LISTEN TO IT AGAIN.  
IF YOU DON’T QUIET THE FUCK DOWN, I’LL BE FORCED TO TAKE DRASTIC MEASURES. IF YOU REALLY WANT TO FIND OUT WHAT THEY ARE, TRY ME.

You slam the note onto the door with enough force to hopefully crack the wood, when you realize there’s already a note hanging there. Your eyes begin scanning the sheet of paper rapidly.

this is becoming tedious and tiresome if you want to talk to me so bad do it like a regular person

Your heart sinks for a reason you can’t quite figure out. Your throat goes dry and you’re overcome with such a wave of nausea you stop reading. That’s exactly what you should be doing, knocking on his door and speaking with him face to face like a mature, grown troll, not passing notes back and forth like you’re still getting schoolfed. You force yourself to continue to read.

and add me on pesterchum  
turntechGodhead

Oh. That’s different. You try to chase the relief away and remind yourself that you’re supposed to be angry, infuriated, livid, even. You snatch the note off the door and slam yours down in it’s place anyway. Mustering up all the anger you can manage, you stomp back into your hive and immediately contact Gamzee.

Your heart is thundering in your ears as you try not to panic. Why the fuck would he give you his chumhandle? You reason with yourself that it’s merely to further discuss the rules and regulations of living in the building--not that he follows any. Still, something doesn’t sit right in your gut. 

  


  


  


  


You suppose Gamzee is right enough. Messaging your downstairs neighbor on pesterchum is not a big deal. You add him to your contacts list feeling a little less high strung.

The bastard better be online--you know he’s home--you can still hear his music blaring through your entire apartment. His name lights up in bright red (you should have expected as much) alerting you of his presence. This dried out crapstack is going to get what he has coming to him.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling turntechGodhead [TG] \--

CG: HEY FUCKHEAD, READY TO GET YOUR SHIT WRECKED?  
TG: totally  
TG: ive been preparing for this day ever since i moved into this place  
TG: so yea after spending four whole days on nothing but preparing for this inevitably lame online encounter i can say i am more than ready  
TG: overprepared even  
TG: so ready im practically spongebob up in this shit  
CG: OKAY, NO. SHUT THE FUCK UP.  
CG: WHAT ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT? ARE YOU REFERENCING A TELEVISION SHOW MADE FOR WRIGGLERS? CG: WHY AM I NOT SURPRISED? YOUR IMMATURITY AND STUPIDITY KNOWS NO BOUNDS.  
TG: no man spongebob is a very mature show  
TG: some may even call it adult oriented  
TG: youre probably too busy being pissy and literal to understand the clever irony about a dish sponge living under the sea  
CG: HEY, DICK MUFFIN, HOW ABOUT WE STAY ON TOPIC? SOUND GOOD?  
CG: GOOD.  
TG: dick muffin  
TG: is that a petname  
TG: like sugarlumps  
TG: can i call you cutey pie  
TG: no wait i can think of a better one  
CG: WHAT?  
CG: IS YOUR PAN COMPLETELY ROTTED? IS THIS SUPPOSED TO BE AN EMBARRASSING ATTEMPT AT CALIGINOUS FLIRTING?  
TG: how about pissy patootie  
TG: no wait  
TG: pissy prickly pants  
TG: look at that fucking alliteration  
TG: my cleverness and word skills are the only things that know no bounds  
CG: WOW, YOU ARE A COMPLETE IDIOT. THOSE ALL SUCK.  
CG: IF SUCKING WAS AN OLYMPIC SPORT I’D GIVE YOUR ATTEMPTS AT CLEVERNESS THE GOLD FUCKING MEDAL.  
TG: aw thanks  
TG: wow i dont know what to say  
TG: i guess id like to thank all my friends and family  
CG: WHAT.  
TG: who were always by my side and supported me the whole way id be nothing without you guys  
TG: id also like to give a special thanks to my lil bro who always believed in me  
CG: OKAY, I GET IT.  
CG: YOU’RE A SARCASTIC ASSHOLE AND THIS WAS ALL JUST AN ATTEMPT AT FURTHER PISSING ME OFF.  
CG: ATTEMPT SUCCESSFUL. CONGRATULATIONS.  
TG: id also like to give a shoutout to my upstairs neighbor who always said i was wasting my time and id never get the gold  
TG: vantas this rap is for you

  
\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] has blocked turntechGodhead [TG] \--  


If this piece of shit thinks he can one up you, he’s got another thing coming. 

Seething, you decide to see if there’s anyone online you can vent to. Your contacts list is nearly all grayed out, and short as it is. It isn’t exactly easy to maintain friendships when you never leave the house. Sollux is online, but getting any sympathy from him is like trying to milk a rock--impossible, stupid, and useless. Besides, he’s probably busy with Eridan. The two have been dancing circles around one of the most obvious caliginous crushes ever since Eridan laughed at his lisp six months ago.

A contact on your list lights up in bright orange, and you wonder just what the fuck Dirk is doing online at this hour in the first place. Isn’t he supposed to be busy bemoaning his fate and dying of some fatal human disease? Christ, humans are fragile.

  
\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling timaeusTestified [TT] \--  


CG: YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE THE SHIT I HAVE HAD TO PUT UP WITH IN THE PAST FORTY-EIGHT HOURS.  
TT: Given my awareness of your situation, I’m sure I could make a fairly accurate estimation.  
CG: GO FOR IT.  
TT: I’d rather hear the riveting tale from your perspective.  
CG: OKAY, SO AFTER TWENTY FOUR HOURS OF NOTHING BUT SHITTY DUBSTEP, THIS GUY DECIDES IT’S TIME TO BRING BACK THE EIGHTIES.  
TT: Sounds like your idea of a good time.  
CG: SHUT UP.  
CG: I’M NOT FINISHED.  
CG: SO WHEN I WENT DOWNSTAIRS TO GIVE HIM A PIECE OF MY MIND, THERE WAS ALREADY A NOTE THERE WITH HIS FUCKING CHUMHANDLE ON IT.  
TT: I warned you bro.  
TT: Once you delve into passive aggressive bullshittery, it’s all downhill from there.  
CG: IT’S BEEN NOTHING BUT DOWNHILL SINCE HE’S MOVED IN.  
CG: THIS IS THE WORST ONE YET. EVEN WORSE THAN VRISKA.  
CG: REMEMBER HER? SHE USED TO BLAST FIRST PERSON SHOOTERS AND GIGGLE WHEN I STOMPED ON THE FLOOR IN A RAGE.  
TT: So, did you contact him?  
CG: YES.  
TT: And?  
CG: HE WAS A TOTAL DICK MUFFIN LIKE USUAL, SO I BLOCKED HIM.  
CG: APPARENTLY THE REAL REASON HE WANTED ME TO ADD HIM WAS SO THAT HE COULD TROLL THE FUCK OUT OF ME FOR SHITS AND GIGGLES.  
TT: Dick muffin?  
TT: Is that supposed to be some kind of pet name?  
CG: FUCK YOU. WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON?  
TT: I thought you didn’t “hate” him like “that.”  
CG: WHOA. WHAT THE FUCK JUST FLEW ACROSS MY SCREEN?  
CG: WAS IT A CHANGE OF SUBJECT? I THINK IT WAS.  
CG: HOW IS YOUR HUMAN SEXUALITY CRISIS?  
TT: Low blow.  
TT: But it’s going fine, actually.  
CG: HOW ARE THINGS WITH THE OTHER HUMAN? THE ONE YOU YOU USED TO BE PALE FOR.  
TT: Humans don’t have quadrants.  
CG: WHATEVER.  
CG: YOU KNOW THE ONE I’M TALKING ABOUT.  
CG: THE ONE WITH THE GLASSES THAT YOU’RE CLEARLY HARBORING RED FEELINGS FOR.  
TT: The only feelings I harbor for Jake are that of annoyance and stale betrayal.  
CG: SOUNDS LIKE A HEALTHY START TO A VACILLATING RED-BLACK ROMANCE. OR PALE-RED, IF YOU CAN SWALLOW THE BETRAYAL AND  
TT: You do remember that I’m human, right?  
CG: IT’S NOT MY FAULT YOUR SPECIES DOESN’T HAVE THE CAPABILITY TO EXPERIENCE THE FULL SPECTRUM OF ROMANCE.  
TT: Right.  
CG: WELL GIVE ME THE FUCKING DETAILS.  
CG: WHAT HAPPENED? WHY IS HE IN THE HOSPITAL? IS HE DYING OF A DISEASE, LIKE YOU?  
TT: You’re like a prying highschool girl, jesus.  
TT: No, he fractured his leg falling out of a tree.  
CG: WHAT THE FUCK WAS HE DOING IN A TREE?  
TT: Climbing it, apparently.  
TT: I think he’s been doing that a lot.  
CG: WHAT MAKES YOU SAY THAT?  
TT: The size of his calf muscles.  
CG: HAHAHA.  
CG: YOU ARE SO FLUSHED FOR HIM YOU’RE PRACTICALLY OOZING RED JUICES.  
TT: Hey, I think I hear something.  
CG: WHAT?  
TT: I think it’s the sound of your hate spooge hitting the floor.  
CG: WHAT THE FUCK.  
TT: As you think about your downstairs neighbor.  
CG: YOU’RE DISGUSTING.  
CG: AT LEAST HAVE THE DECENCY TO HAVE ME GET OUT MY BUCKET IN YOUR FUCKED UP HYPOTHETICAL SCENARIO.  
CG: WHAT KIND OF TROLL DO YOU TAKE ME FOR?

  
\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling timaeusTestified [TT] \--  


TT: You started it.

  
\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling timaeusTestified [TT] \--  


CG: AND FOR THE RECORD, I HATE HIM PLATONICALLY.  
TT: Sure you do.

  
\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling timaeusTestified [TT] \--  


You decide to unblock him, if only to prove to him that he’s not even a blip on your radar, and not nearly important enough to rouse your real rage. He pesters you immediately, and you almost regret your decision. 

  
\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] \--  


TG: 2672993692  
TG: you gonna call me or what  
TG: too scared

You stare in disbelief at the numbers on the screen. Even if you did have caliginous feelings towards him (which you don’t), you would never consider someone this forward and classless as a potential kismesis. 

TG: what was that  
TG: you said play more music  
TG: sure thing man i gotcha  
TG: you like erasure right

He can’t be seriously attempting to incite a kismesissitude by blasting music into your apartment. Scratch what you said before--you definitely regret your decision to unblock him. Still, you should at least give him one phone call and a final fuck you before blocking his number and pesterchum permanently, right?


	3. Chapter 3

You don’t a have a motherfucking clue what your name is, and you can’t tell if you just woke up from one of them wrecked, wretched kinds of sleep or if just you up and zoned the fuck out. Either way, your pan is kicking the wicked ignorance inside your skull, forcefully parting those smoke clouds of poison while a dark blood pumps inside your veins and screams at you to just **motherfucking kick back.**

**That’s right, just _kick it the fuck back._ ******

Your hands are shaking like they up and sprouted a whole fucking kitchen, got so many motherfucking pans frying in there, and you can’t stop seeing red, can’t stop thinking about rivers of blood and the way your mirthful messiahs were screaming at you to make them, telling you to paint your walls in motherfucking rainbows. Your facepainted brothers from the darkest of carnivals were there, telling you that it’s time to wake **_the fuck up_ and get your laughassassain on. **

You want to paint your walls in the most **beautiful** of rainbow miracles. **_Motherfuckin’_ miracles.**

You can feel a little tug, something that tells you if you start causing a holy ruckus like that there’s going to be one sad little motherfucker missing you. You unclench your fists to reveal tiny purple crescents on your palm, sparkly little moons trying to get their shine on. Your eyes flicker sporadically around your hive because you need something to fucking break, something to destroy, something to **motherfucking _subjugglate_.**

Everything in your hive is already destroyed from the looks of it. Your home is nothing but trash and horns, and empty bottles of the most wicked elixir, but if you don’t do something about these powerful mad fucking urges soon--

You hear a buzzing noise so faint you’re sure your brain is off and imagining some miracles without you again, but then you see the little flickering light, your cellphone, and you squint, because it reminds you of something you can’t quite put a claw on. You pick it up and just barely resist the urge to crush it, to smash it, to show it just how much of a **motherfucking messiah you really are.**

It takes you a mean minute before you finally get your under-motherfucking-standing going, but when you do you feel yourself smiling at the most miraculous miracle of them all. It’s the nubbiest, most pathetic little star-monkey you know, your best friend and your moirail, and he’s so pitifully perfect it’s like the messiahs themselves went ahead and wrote this shit in the stars.

  


That slaps a little bit of sense into you, makes you feel like cold water’s been splashed in your face. Your eyes widen as recognition dawns on you:

Your name is Gamzee Makara, and your thinkpan is a little melted, like you went and left it up on the stove a little too long. You think you would get your remember on if you went and did a thing like that, but remembering isn’t one of your strong suits, so you can’t be too sure.

You do what your moirail says and you take exactly five hits from your favorite bong. It’s your favorite because it’s bright red and reminds you of a certain mutant blood that you couldn’t feel paler for if you up and rolled yourself around in some sugar. When the haze settles it sweeps all that murderous noise under the rug, so you pop open a frosty brew and proceed to get your chill on. It’s fucking bitchtits in your hive right now.

You feel like you’ve forgotten something again, let something slip out of your earholes and fall underfoot, all covered up with your clubs and your horns and empty bottles of faygo. Your phone is on the floor next to you blinking like some kind of miracle monitor, and you wonder what kind of harsh whimsy found its way to your phone while you were maxed out in a daze of smoke and good vibes.

**8 New Messages**

Aww shit, dogg. Your voice communication device is all filled up with rad brothers and sisters trying to get in touch with you like you’re the ringleader of your very own dark carnival. You kind of are. Except you sell your brothers and sisters a different kind of product, a chronic tonic to help them be more like you, all maxed and relaxed with your bad self. 

The first four messages are from your closest best friend. Karbro ain’t so good at keeping his relax on, lets his brain up and walk away with all sorts of crazy thoughts til he’s so panicked he’s stuck choking on his own tears like a little wriggler. 

  


Two messages are from your rad little sis and her brother who’s always got himself worked up in a rage frenzy. Your lil sis is a sweet thing, so smart she got herself all up in a university already. 

  


  


The last message is from your other best friend, but this one ain’t your moirail and you couldn’t muster up any pale feelings for him if you tried. Naw, you’re too busy straight trippin’ flushed for this fine motherfucker. You don’t think you could pity any troll more than you pity Tavbro, what with the way he can’t even up and get his groove on without climbing up into his four wheel device first. He’s too soft for a troll, but you like that too, and you can’t even think about how fresh his rhymes are without feeling red as a bottle of cherry faygo.

You’re at a loss of what to do, got your hands full with too many best friends and you’re not too sure how to juggle them. You know you have to call Karkat, got to let him know that you didn’t get off to no murdering spree, didn’t let those dark thoughts cut up them miracles inside you. You need to go see that devil of an angel too, get that mad fucker his illegal miracle plant so he can get his baller blaze all lit up. Of course you want to see Tavbro more than anything, kick out some boss rhymes with a brother who knows how to kick illest of beats back.

**Incoming call from: BeSt FrIeNd**

Aw shit. Your palebro ain’t going to be happy, what with the way you were all mellowed out when he was trying to get his communication on.

“Gamzee, what the fuck?"

You cringe at the worry in his voice. You don’t want your moirail worrying about you like that, getting his pan all riled up and wrecked because of you.

“Hey best friend, what’s up with your bad self?” You can hear the vowels in the words dragging out, the way your lips move with a slowness that you don’t quite have a handle on.

“What do you mean what’s up? What the fuck is up with you? Do you have any idea how worried I was that your brain finally cracked and you were out in the streets murdering people and eating their bodies afterwards?”

You have a pretty good idea how worried he was from the way he’s yelling. You know it’s your palebro’s job to keep you in check, but it’s your job to do the same for him, make sure his brain’s not giving itself an aneurysm.

“Nah, brother. I was doing like you said and getting my motherfuckin chill on.”

There’s a small pause.

“Right. So, why were you all fucked up anyway?” Karkat’s voice is calmer, now, relaxed, just the way you like to hear it. 

“Who knows, brother. My house was the dark motherfucking carnival when I woke up, and them night terrors was telling me I was a messiah rising from the ashes. Telling me to get my subjugglate on.”

Karkat is quiet after that, which is never a good sign. It means he’s floating up around in his head, going to get himself lost inside. It means he’s worried about you.

“Fuck. Gamzee, you can’t let that shit overtake you all the time.” 

He’s coming at you with real talk, and you want to give him the same back but you haven’t even told Karkat how bad it gets sometimes, and he’s never actually seen you after a nightmare when you can’t stop yourself from shattering glass just to resist the urge to shatter people. It’s been this way for a long time, thoughts swimming in your motherfucking brain that you didn’t put there, a sort of rage in your chest that tells you break, crack, hurt, **kill**.

“I know, it’s all motherfuckin good now.”

You’re not really coming at him crooked, just brushing over the truth a bit so that you don’t got to show up and get your jam on just to calm him down. 

“Yeah, it better fucking be. You should come over, as in, right the fuck now.” 

It’s not that you don’t want to see him, because you do, but you’re juggling all these motherfucking best friends and you don’t wanna get hit in the face with the blunt end of the club.

“Shit, Karbro. I’d be all up and over in a swift second if I didn’t have to get some dank out to one ornery motherfucker.”

You want to see Tavbro too, but the last thing you want to do is hurt the feelings of your moirail. You feel a little warm just thinking about the sweet little fucker, the way he’s going to spit out some seriously whack word poetry, and the way you’re gonna watch the words form on his pouty little lips. Sometimes you just got to be going with what feels right where your heart’s up in, you know? 

“Oh. Well yeah. You go do that then.” You can hear the disappointment in his voice, and the sound really scratches at your soul, fucking your feelings all up in ways you don’t want to feel.

“You sure you’re chill brother?” You know he isn’t but you just have to fucking ask him, would rather hear the lie than never ask him.

“Yeah just trying to deal with the shitstain of a neighbor downstairs. He’s actually been quiet all day. Who knows what the fuck he’s up to. Probably planning something big. He’s probably going to play a track so loud it’s going to shatter my fucking windows. Maybe then I can report him to the police.”

You feel a little better when he gets his rant on, ‘cause bitching is a sure sign that your brother is feeling just fine.

“Haha, aw shit. You sure my rail ain’t waxing pitch for that motherfucker?”

Karkat makes the choked noise he always makes when you catch him in the truth, indignant and feeling some type of way.

“I don’t even know what the hell he looks like! For all I know he’s a forty sweep year old highblood with a fetish for mutants. Stop insinuating shit about the completely platonic hatred I feel for my neighbor.” 

You hear a thump and the start of a beat, and Karkat growls.

“Speak of the devil,” you say, smiling into the phone.

“Yeah. The devil couldn’t measure up to this asshole in terms of douchebaggery if he tried. I have to go now. It’s not like I’ll be able to hear you over this bullshit anyway. Keep in touch, so I know you’re not dead this time.” 

Karkat hangs up before you can promise him you won’t do it again, and then you’re left in your empty hive wondering just what the fuck you should be doing. Your memories are slippery little fuckers, the way they slide through your fingers like sopor slime whenever you try to get your remember on. Eventually one flickers into focus, and oh yeah, you’re supposed to head off to see the most remarkable set of twins this side of the city has to offer. 

  


It doesn’t take much for you to get ready. You’re already wearing clothes so all you have to do is hit up the bathroom to empty your bladder and fix up your face paint. It’s all smudged and messy, looking like some kind of fucked up trainwreck and you’re about to get your repairs going. You like the face paint because it covers up the scars, because if people are going to stare at you and whisper you’d rather they do it because you’re broadcasting your belief in the Vast Honk, instead of because you have three diagonal scars carved into your skin. You’ve had the scars for three years, and you still don’t like to look at them.

You fix up your face and hit the road in a hurry, trying to cross ten blocks in ten minutes, so that you can make bank and get your rap on with the most pitiful motherfucker around. You don’t want to waste time on a silly little thing like walking, on getting from here to there. You wish you could get your miracle on right now, just push a little button in your brain and motherfuck, you’re already there.

Callie opens the door looking sweet as sopor slime pie and grinning that saccharine smile of hers. She’s all dressed up with her white wig and curvaceous horns, and you can’t help but feel a pang of pity at the way she dresses up as a troll, so unsatisfied with the body she was born in. If you could perform miracles you’d definitely give her the body she deserves, but the best you can do is sell her your miracle plant instead and hope that when she breathes in its smoke she can forget she’s a cherub for a little while, and feel a little more like a troll instead.

“Hey lil sis, ready for some motherfucking miracles?” 

“Of course! I’m always ready for your miracles Gamzee,” she smiles at you, and shit, was she just up and hatched this endearing? 

She ushers you inside her hive and you take a seat on one of the couches and glance around her living block. You find it kind of crazy the way her hive is all mixed up, half hers and half his, like someone went ahead and painted a picture in two contrasting colors. You don’t want to stay long, but goddamn don’t your sis know how to help you get your relax on. 

Calliope goes on about University, about her studies, about her new troll friends and about how much she’s missed you. You like talking to her, listening to her smooth voice bubble with excitement when she can’t contain herself. She really knows how to make a motherfucker feel welcome.

The chill don’t last long, what with Caliborn stomping down the stairs louder than a stampede of hoofbeasts, charging into the living block and jerking his thumb towards the door.

“Who told you you could stay? Give me my shit and get the fuck out.” He stares at you from the steps like a disgruntled cat.

“How much you need, brother?” He scowls and stalks over to you, bristling. He’s a feisty little purrbeast alright. You don’t usually sell to him, so there’s no precedent set here. Calliope is usually the one buying, and with the way her clothes are so clean and her eyes are so bright, you wouldn’t believe it if you hadn’t vegged out with her on more than one occasion yourself.

“I’m not your fucking brother. And.” He sends a pathetically guarded side long glance at Calliope, but she only smiles politely in return. He rolls his eyes and his fists tense at his side. You try not to chuckle at his ignorance.

“If you ain’t all that sure, I can--”

“Fuck you. I know how this works,” he swallows, glaring at you. “Three.”

“Huh?” You’re not sure what he means by three, and with the face he makes, you’re not all that sure he knows either.

“Three boxes,” he says, as if it clarifies what he’s talking about. You chuckle low and gravelly, and rage flares up in him like a fire so strong it nearly singes the edges of your shirt.

“Are you deaf? I want three fucking boxes. Asshole.”

Calliope barely stifles a giggle with her hand. You begin unzipping your backpack. Explaining to him that weed doesn’t come in boxes is a moot point. Calbro is a ticking time bomb, and you’ve known him long enough to know that if you don’t tread the ground carefully he won’t hesitate to detonate.

“What other shit you have? Morphine?” 

You smile broadly in your effort not to laugh. 

“Nah brother, if I can’t grow it myself, I don’t sell it.” He frowns with not enough teeth, pointed, curved things that take up too much space in his mouth. Less like razors and more like something entirely more reptilian.

“Useless,” he growls. You show him what’s in your bag and he rolls his eyes, unimpressed. You can’t possibly imagine what he needs so much for. From what you’ve learned about cherub biology from Calliope, the smoke travels right through her weird reptilian organs and into her brain before you’re even done inhaling. In other words, that shit knocks a cherub on its ass faster than a troll at his kismesis that he ain’t seen for months.

Still, you’re not in the business of passing judgements and encouraging good decisions. You’re in the business of making miracles. And if a mellowed out Caliborn ain’t a miracle, then fuck your Faith sideways, because you don’t know what is.

You give Caliborn everything in your backpack and make bank. It’s a good thing too, because you’re starting to think that maybe the rent is due soon, or that maybe that it was even due last week. Shit, keeping track of all those numbers is hella difficult. Caliborn huffs up the stairs after telling you to get the fuck out. He follows this up by flashing his middle fingers at you as he retreats up the stairway.

Callie wraps her arms around you in such a tender embrace that you’re sure Karkat would be green with envy if he saw. She clings to you briefly, and detaches herself just before the guilt manages to eb its way into your gut. Her eyes flicker briefly to your arms before moving back to your face. She smiles at you in the doorway, but there’s something else behind the quirk of her lips, something you always see in the faces of those you get to know a little too well. You’re glad cherubs don’t have quadrants. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay a bit? For dinner?” 

You’d like to say yes, especially because you haven’t had real, good food in ages, and because Calliope knows how to whip up perfection in the kitchen. It’d be nice to be in front of an oven again too, and while you don’t have any sopor on you Callie has enough miracle plant that it’d be all too easy to whip up some brownies. You haven’t hung with Calliope like that since high school, since before you dropped out and became what you are today. Whatever that is. You can’t remember.

“Lil sis, I’d love to up and spend some time with you like that, but I got Tav all ready and waiting.” 

She nods her head slowly, and her eyes drift to your arms again. You wonder why she keeps looking at them like that, like they’re mangled and broken. You follow her eyes to get a look for yourself. Oh. They kind of are. There’s some surface wounds you don’t remember getting, thin little lines and scabs, and shit, they don’t look so good.

“Gotta get my pity on with Tav lil sis. You feel me?” 

Her eyes snap back your face and she smiles honestly this time.

“Alright! Tell him I said hello, okay?” 

You smile back and she stands in the doorway as you leave, watching you wander down the street. 

“Gamzee!” You stop and turn back. “Be careful, okay?” Calliope calls out to you, nervousness seeping into her smile and ruining it. You like it when she’s happy, when her smiles are honest, and when she doesn’t worry. Why is someone always worrying about you? You may not the be the fastest thinking troll around, but motherfuck, you got this.

“You got it sis.”

You wave one last time before you turn back and make your way around the corner. Even though the evening has settled in it’s still bright out, what with the way summer will be showing up soon, bringing all kinds of sunshine and warm excitement. The houses start transforming as you cross through neighborhoods, less and less space between the homes, less blinding and more blackout shades. You like the isolated look of the houses in Calliope’s neighborhood, find fondness in the twin homes with split front porches, paintjobs in highlighter colors and swirls that look like a blind cherub went at them on a bad day. Still, these are the hives you’re used to, crammed together and disjointed, each home an expression of the troll that lives inside. 

You can’t wait to see Tav’s hive in your frame of vision. Can’t wait to see the familiar gray and blue paint, the cute little windmill that sits up on the roof next to the satellite dish. Mostly you just can’t wait to see Tav, listen to him tell you about the newest fiduspawn monster, watch his eyes light up when he tells you about his latest flarping adventure. Your nerves are on edge just thinking about, got your bloodpusher getting all mixed up and out of control. 

You’re two blocks away when the flashing red and blue lights distract you. For the briefest of moments, your pan is all muddled up in your Tavbro, and you think, shit, Karkat was right, I’m about to see some fireworks. Your vision clears and your brain gets in gear, and reality is much, much, worse, and motherfuck, it’s some motherufucking pigs.

You definitely don’t have time for this shit. Some might even say you’re in a rush. **You need to get to your motherucking Tavbro.**

“Halt criminal!” The command is delivered with a nearly maniacal laugh tailing it. 

The voice is distinctly female, sort of erratic and scratchy. You hate it. Your body tenses up as you try to stomp down the rage, and you turn slowly, fingers shaking. Your eyes focus on one of two trolls in front of you. One is clearly male, small in stature, and he’s wearing eyewear that obscures his eye color but does nothing to hide the stench of his pissblood. You can smell it coursing through his veins.

You don’t care about the hemospectrum, but these motherfucking lowbloods need to be taught their **motherfucking place.**

The one with the bi colored glasses turns to the other one.

“TZ, you have to thop pretending this is a tv thow,” he says. His fangs are so deformed and oversized that they ruin the way he talks, and if that doesn’t scream **mutant** , **kill** , **subjugglate** , that fucked up extra pair of horns on the freak’s head definitely do. 

“Jutht a minute,” he says when your eyes focus on him. You don’t have a fucking minute, do you? **You don’t even have a motherfucking second.** You’re a **motherfucking _messiah_** __and miracles wait for **no troll.**

“We don’t have due cauthe,” the male whispers, tripping all over the pronunciation like the fucked up cullbait he is.

The female lets out that wretched laughter again, and your eyes focus on hers. When her eyes don’t focus back you realize they’re scorched, broken, blinded. Your fist tightens around your cellphone and she advances towards you.

“TZ,” the male warns. He’s smart, warning her, knows his motherfucking place. 

“Oh, we’ve got cause,” she says, close enough that you can reach out and **snap her motherfucking neck**. You think of Karkat, and how you told him no brother, you won’t kill no troll, you got a handle on your fucked up self.

Your fingers twitch. You’re a good motherfucking liar, aren’t you? She slams your body to the ground before you realize what’s happening, and you land face first in the concrete with her bizarre cackling echoing in your ears. You try to throw her off you but there’s something holding you down and shit that tiny motherfucker is psiioniic. You should have ripped his throat out when you had the chance.

The troll on top of you leans down, pressing against your immobile body. With her lips next your ear, she screeches something awful and your mind screams the fuck back: **cull** , **cull** , **_fuck_** , **cull**. 

“I can smell due cause all over him!” she squeals, slamming your face into cement. You’re her **mirthful _motherfucking_ messiah** , here to deliver her from evil, and you want to **motherfucking _wreck_** her in every sense of the word.


	4. Chapter 4

You’re name is Caliborn. You don’t have a goddamned last name because you’re not a troll or a fucking human. 

Unlike Calliope you’d rather not drag yourself through that disgusting heap of ancestral bullshit and fictional familial mud. She wants to be a troll for fuck knows what reason. She writes fanfiction and fantasizes about the red stirrings of inferior races with a repellent amount of sincerity. She’s even gone so far as to give herself a last name. You refuse to acknowledge its existence. 

You’d tell her to drop the appalling disguise and start behaving like the superior species she is, but you’re still missing a tooth from the last time you tried that and you’d prefer not to look like any more of a battered bitch if you can help it. (Though the piece of gold in your mouth does give you a remarkably affluent look that allows you to broadcast your capital opulence in addition to your flawless biology.)

The only thing worse than trolls are the abominable mammalian apes that your “sister” dotes on almost just as much. It’s difficult trying to pinpoint exactly what it is about them that is so abhorrent that it makes you want to regurgitate everything in your stomach sack and then some. Between their unattractive, flimsy, thin skin and self-regulating body temperature, there’s no shortage of options. Their gaudy, tender courting methods only exacerbates your disgust. Just the thought of their compassionate human romance sends revolting shivers down your spine. Nasty. 

But now isn’t the time to be distracted by lascivious thoughts. No. Now is the time to give this finger licking faggot sucker the heaping pile of fuck you that he deserves. By which you mean. You are going to “stone” yourself into oblivion. You will be so stoned that you will be undeniably mineral. So similar to bricks and building ore that you will be mistaken for the great wall of China. That is how stoned you are about to be. 

First things first. The drug must be ingested. 

You open up the plastic wrapping to reveal the dry, dead plant inside. You bring it to your face. Sniff it cautiously. It smells exactly like that gold-digging vomit wagon of a clown. It looks like an herb. Oregano. Or parsley. Whatever. It looks like something. The kind of shit Calliope likes to sprinkle on her food when she’s preparing meals. The exact sort of shit you are about to get high from. That is. 

Yes. You will be so absolutely aerial that you will ascend and take flight. Birds are going to squawk in upsurging terror as you roundhouse kick them through clouds. The sky will be yours. Everything will be yours. You will own this game and you will own him. You will stab your pole into the grounds of victory and claim it as our own, your flag rippling with supremacy. 

You will make plushrump rue the day he ever challenged you. Beat him so well at his own game that he will regret his own conception. He will regret being the fastest semen cell to fertilize the ovum, and he will lament with salty human tears ever having cracked the shell of his egg and crawled out. Your superior cherub biology will hold more human drugs than he could ever hope to sustain. Especially with his diseased organs.

Wait. How the hell are you supposed to get this aviation fuel into your system in the first place? Of course the clown didn’t leave any fucking instructions. What a haughty, narcissistic bastard. Not that you need him. You don’t need anything. From anybody. You can do things on your own. You’re a fully matured cherub and despite what everyone says your brain is in excellent working condition. 

You definitely don’t need friends. At all. Friends are for the insubstantial and the weak. For delicate, flaccid little cock flowers on the verge of blossoming into full grown cockstorm balls lovers. Besides. You already have an assistant far more advantageous than a “friend.” He’s an all-purpose knowledge vomiting machine without an ounce of smugness. The best part is that unlike the other fucktards that surround you, he doesn’t sass you. He also isn’t busy fixing his hair when you need him most. In fact, you think that it’s high time you paid your closest compatriot a little visit. 

You scrutinize the results for anything that can help your current predicament. Most of the results appear to be fleshy little monkeyfucks trying to ascertain a way to get high without the help of drugs. What tawdry, covetous little swine. Trying to get aeronautical without the proper preparations.

You decide to be a little more specific.

This time your results are a goldmine of tutorials and illegal paraphernalia. Ha! Calliope probably expects you to come sniffling to her like a hatchling after a failed first hunt. For help. For pity. Fat chance. Like you ever need her help. Or like you’d ever ask for it if you did. You’ll sooner gouge your own eyes out than bring yourself to request any sort of guidance from the likes of that ass-backwards wannabe endotherm.

You decide to try the first link. It looks like it might not be full of whiney, unabbreviated nonsense.

Jackpot!!!!!!!!!!!

You can tell you’re in the right place because the name of the website has the word marijuana in it. You scroll down a bit in search of the good information.

Wait a fucking second. Hold the verbal communication device. Just what the hell is this windbagging pissface doing? You’re supposed to kill the plant and ingest it. Not stand around looking like a dimwitted jizz pig! What the fuck is he even gawking at, anyway? Is there some kind of magical marijuana wizard off in the distance, bestowing the powers of weed plants into homosapians?

The chance of that happening is so unlikely and overweight that it borders on the edge of obscenely obese. Magic isn’t real. Only a freshly laid egg would believe a load of heaping, stinking garbage like that. You don’t believe in magic. Or hope. Or any of that embarrassing, touchy, sentimentality. The only thing you believe in is yourself. Because you are infallible. And therefore worthy of believing in. 

Fuck. You’re straying from the subject. Time to get back to the matter at hand. That is. Getting high. You scroll down a little further. 

What the fuck is this massive wall of literary bullshit? Is it that impossibly hard to break this overflowing vortex of information into something a little easier to digest? What deadbeat, defeated failure has time to read this drivel? You sigh and try not to slam your skull against the keyboard. 

Grab a drink? Favourite playlists? Who the the fuck does this guy think he is? Telling you what to do like he’s the guardian cherubs never have. And therefore don’t have a use for. 

You spend a few minutes reading the various tutorials and trying not to blow a gasket. Why didn’t anyone tell you that extra components are required to get this process in motion? Clearly the debatably intelligent life forms that you occasionally associate with are shit gargling self fuckers with time only for self-indulgence. They give exactly two shits about you and the greater good you are trying to accomplish. They should be supporting you, your righteousness, and your word as law.

Don’t they realize that someone on the internet is wrong? And that he’s spreading his wrongness around like an airborne disease in a hospital for birds with autoimmune disorders? If you don’t go out of your way to teach this conceited piece of nasty trash a lesson now, who will? The internet police?

Oh right. There aren’t any. Which is exactly why it is up to you to put this cloaca licking, egg-bearing apeshit in his place. You consider yourself a self-started internet vigilante. Like Batman. Except instead of an anthropomorphic costume and an oversized human erection for preadolescent boys, you’re packing exactly zero fucks and tendency to upshow the fuck out of anyone who says you can’t do otherwise.

  
\-- uranianUmbra [UU] began pestering undyingUmbrage [uu] \--  


Holy sodding shit. Can this day get any worse? 

UU: hello brother! how goes yoUr bold jUmp into the world of drUgs? going well i presUme?  
uu: FuCK YOu AND YOuR PRESuMPTIONS.  
uu: HAVE I MENTIONED HOW I HAVE ALREADY MASTERED THE ART OF HuMAN DRuGS?  
uu: BECAuSE I HAVE. JuST NOW.  
UU: you mastered inhaling rather qUickly. what method did yoU Use?  
uu: WHAT METHOD? FIRST. I GOT OuT THE WEED. SECOND.  
uu: NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS.  
UU: aren’t yoU feeling especially aggressive today!  
uu: NO. I’M NOT.  
uu: BuT I AM FEELING ESPECIALLY ANNOYED. SO WHY DON’T YOu FIND SOMEONE ELSE.  
uu: TO FuCK WITH.  
UU: i assUre yoU brother, i’m not fUcking with yoU. i’m here to help!  
uu: HA FuCKING HA. AS IF I NEED YOuR HELP.  
UU: it woUld only make things easier on yoU.  
uu: I DON’T NEED EASIER. I CAN MASTER ANYTHING.  
uu: ON THE HARDEST DIFFICuLTY SETTING.  
UU: that’s not trUe! i seem to remember a certain game that yoU have yet to beat me in. ^u^  
uu: THAT GAME MEANS NOTHING. THAT GAME REQuIRES NO SKILL.  
UU: why don’t we solve oUr problem once and for all?v  
uu: ARE YOu SUGGESTING A REMATCH?  
UU: only if yoU aren’t adverse to it!  
uu: OF COURSE NOT.  
uu: WHY WOuLD I BE ADVERSE TO HAVING ANOTHER CHANCE.  
uu: TO PuT YOu IN YOuR PLACE. SHOW YOu WHO’S BOSS.  
UU: we’ll jUst see about that!  
uu: EXCEPT NO.  
uu: I’M IN THE MIDDLE OF PuTTING SOMEONE ELSE IN HIS PLACE.  
uu: I CAN ONLY PuT SO MANY PEOPLE IN THEIR PLACES. AT ONE TIME.  
UU: oh? who?  
uu: SOMEONE ON THE INTERNET. YOu DON’T KNOW HIM.  
UU: how do yoU plan on putting plUshrUmp in his place, brother?  
uu: WITH THE DRuGS. OF COuRSE.  
uu: WAIT. WHAT THE FuCK.  
uu: HAVE YOu BEEN SNOOPING IN MY FuCKING ROOM AGAIN?  
UU: of coUrse not! that woUld be an invasion of yoUr privacy. ^u^  
uu: YOU LITTLE BITCH.  
UU: what langUage!  
UU: why don’t we simply smoke together? then we can have oUr rematch while yoU show plUshrUmp his place.  
uu: HMM. LET ME THINK IT OVER.  
uu: NO.  
UU: i knew yoU woUld tUrn down a rematch! you can be quite predictable at times.  
uu: YOu KNOW NOTHING.  
UU: don’t tell me you are afraid of losing!  
uu: HA. YOu WISH.  
uu: FINE.  
uu: I ACCEPT YOuR TERMS.  
UU: i will prepare my water bong. yoU will enjoy the bright green coloUr, i think!  
uu: HA HA. BETTER PREPARE YOuRSELF.  
uu: FOR FAILuRE.  
uu: BECAuSE YOu WON’T BE WINNING. EITHER MATCH.  
UU: either match?  
uu: YES. I WILL OUT DRuG YOu. AND PLuSHRuMP.  
uu: THEN YOu WILL LOSE AT NOT JuST ONE GAME.  
uu: BUT TWO. WHEN I KILL YOu DuRING THE REMATCH.  
uu: VICTORY WILL BE SWEET.  
uu: AND WELL DESERVED.  
UU: don’t get too ahead of yoUrself brother. i have qUite the high tolerance!  
uu: WE’LL JuST SEE ABOUT THAT.  
uu: EVEN THOuGH IT’S OBVIOuS. THAT ALL WE’LL SEE IS ME.  
uu: WINNING.

  
\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] ceased pestering uranianUmbra [UU] \--  


As you suspected, inhaling weed is an unnecessarily complicated process that clearly was not designed with cherub anatomy in mind. It’s nearly impossible for you to wrap your lips around the spout of the bong without cutting up your mouth on your own fangs in the process. They protrude from the soft fleshy interior of your mouth for a reason. They’re much better suited to injecting venom and breaking necks. You scowl and wipe at the blood as it drips from your mouth

“This shit is constructed stupid,” you huff. 

Calliope giggles at you in a way you find absolutely infuriating. You’re positive that she does it just to watch you tense your jaw as you resist the urge to grind your teeth into dust. 

“Nonsense, brother,” she says. You’re sure she only calls you that to piss you off too. “Let me help you.”

When she reaches her arm around your shoulders you tense, exercising just enough self control to stop yourself from ripping her arm off. 

She uses her arm to pull herself closer to you, her smaller form hunched over the object on the coffee table. She retracts her arm and smiles at you. You want to burn away her happiness. She reaches forward and picks up the lighter, flicking the little wheel with her thumb so that it ignites a puny flame. 

“You suck while the lighter burns it,” she says. “You pull this out when it fills up with smoke, and keep sucking.”

Calliope’s instructing you like you’re pre-pupation, condescendingly slow and overly sweet. Does she think you’re an inbred arsehole? You can manage something as basic as this without such careful slowness. 

She leans forward with the lighter and sets the flame to the plant, lips pressed to the lip of the glass. She makes it look completely effortless, smooth in a way that isn’t anything short of a challenge. She pulls back and smiles, opening her mouth and letting the smoke blow into your face. You swat at her and hiss. She giggles a third time and you’ve had more than your fill of her mocking laughter. You snatch the lighter from her hand and glare in her direction.

You manage to cover your fangs adequately this time, and when you finally get the flame going Calliope cheers.

“Suck, brother!” she urges, a word choice you know is deliberately inappropriate. Still, you obey the command because at this point, it’s the only option. You suck hard too, because you won’t be outdone by Calliope, and you definitely won’t be outdone by human plushrump. You won’t be shown up by anyone. You’ll be the only one doing any showing up around here.

The smoke hits your lungs and fuck yourself with a chainsaw, does it burn and scorch like the fires of hell. 

You try your best to hold it back so that you don’t look like a complete amateur. You end up coughing up half your organs and sputtering like a blockheaded imbecile anyway. By the time you recover Calliope is already blowing more smoke into the air.

“Want another hit?” she asks sweetly. Of course you do. You want a thousand more. More than Calliope and plushrump could ever take combined. You want so many hits that you’re going to look like the victim of domestic abuse scenario by the end of this drugged fuckrubbish.

You force a smile onto your face as you reach for the contraption.

You find out Calliope becomes a shitwreck of mental retardation after just five, even more giggly than usual and with an obvious lack of control over her motor skills. Her wig is disheveled and her eyes are wide and strangely unfocused. By your sixth hit you still feel nothing and you’re already triumphant on one count. You knew it. You’re better. 

“I win,” you proclaim, but the lack of recognition in Calliope’s eyes dampens the feeling of success.

“Congratulations brother,” she says, sounding so sincere that holy mother of fuck, it isn’t fair the way she can be so irritating without even trying. 

“Shut the fuck up,” you say, reaching for the bong again. Two hits later, you’re sure the brain damaged juggalo sold you a bag of cooking spices. Yet. The proof is in your sister. She’s beside you on her laptop, looking dazed and relaxed as she stares at pictures of human females in various states of undress. You avert your eyes immediately to circumvent the blood rushing to your face. 

“Hey, bitch! I’d rather not have to look at that artless pornography every time I turn my fucking head.” 

She turns to you, looking mildly confused. She stares at your face and she’s so expressive that you can see the comprehension dawn in her eyes.

“You like it!” She exclaims, saddling up beside you and turning the screen at angle so that you can both see it. You glower and look pointedly away. Just where the fuck are those goddamn miracles that cultist clown promised? 

“Ha! You fucking wish,” you say, and your brain feels a little rattled when you turn too swiftly, like there’s too much extra space around it and it’s just slammed into the side of your cranium. It takes your eyes a second longer than usual to focus on the screen.

There are two women entwined with each other on a bed, one darker skinned and more curvaceous than the other. Your face feels hot and your skin tingles. You pay it no mind, overwhelmed with disgust.

“That’s sick,” you say, gawking at how soft and unnaturally vulnerable they look. Completely exposed. Their fingers are entwined, palms pressed flush against each other’s. You swallow as your sister brings up another picture, containing half the bitches, but twice the tenderness. There’s a male and female human kissing one another on the mouth. The next picture is a troll and a human, both male, gazing into each other’s eyes. Just what kind of sick shit is your sister into?

The fourth picture is the last straw. There’s a male cherub sitting completely naked, hemipenis erect with interest as a female human kneels in front of him, head bowed so that she can press her lips to the top of his skull in the most tender display of affection you’ve ever seen in your short, nineteen years of living.

You slam her laptop shut and stand up with a start. You tip dangerously on your heels for a moment before finding balance. Fuck. Standing isn’t usually this hard. 

“I’ve had enough of that nasty, overrated affection fondling!” 

Calliope blinks up at you with faux innocence. “I think it’s sweet!” she says.

“Yeah, fucking candies and chocolate,” you mutter. You feel like you need to burn out your eyes. You head for the steps and think a thousand things in the time it takes you to reach them. None of them have to do with kissing and hand holding or species far below yourself, that’s for damn sure. Since when have the steps been so damn far away? The time it takes you to reach the landing at the top is twice as long as usual, and when you make it to your room you’re breathless and out of sorts. 

Your laptop screen is brighter than you remember. Plushrump is so going down. He’ll be so fucking down he’ll be in one of those human parks where they bury their dead. And you’ll dance on the ground he’s buried beneath. And piss on it. That’ll show him. You navigate to his blog without too much difficulty and send him a message that you’re sure will give him just what he has coming to him. He responds almost immediately, and the two of you go back and forth, your mouse hovering over the refresh button as you wait for him to respond.

When you read the last line a delightfully ironic shiver travels down your spine. The very thought of the human being in his rightful place, below you, is almost too perfect. It’s the natural order of things, and it’s about time someone else besides you started respecting it.

You were expecting some kind of a fight, more of a challenge. You aren’t disappointed. The sinking feeling in your stomach is excitement. You’re sure of it.

  
\-- uranianUmbra [UU] began pestering undyingUmbrage [uu] \--  


UU: brother, yoU ran away before we coUld have oUr rematch!  
uu: YOu WISH. I DON’T RuN FROM ANYTHING.  
uu: I AM MERELY DELIVERING PLuSHRuMP THE STEAMY PILE OF DEFEAT IN WHICH HE HAS ORDERED.  
uu: AND OF COuRSE. COLLECTING THAT WHICH IS OWED.  
uu: MY REWSRD.  
UU: a rewsrd? soUnds exciting!  
uu: FuCK YOu.  
uu: REWARD. REWARD IS THE WORD I MEANT.  
UU: of coUrse it was. ^u^  
uu: FuCK YOu.  
UU: sUre yoU aren’t afraid of losing?  
uu: FINE. LET OuR GAME COMMENCE.  
uu: I HOPE YOuR CRAP PILE MACHINE CAN HANDLE THE GRAPHICS.  
uu: BECAuSE THAT IS HOW I WILL DEFEAT YOu.  
uu: ONLINE, BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!  
UU: okay! i will load Up my game, and don’t expect me to go easy on yoU!

  
\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] ceased pestering uranianUmbra [UU] \--

Okay, so maybe you went a little overboard with the exclamation points. But here is your shitshingle of a sister interrupting you at the most important--you know what? You take it back. Those exclamation points were entirely necessary. Calliope is a cunt who deserves every exclamation point you throw at her.

You start up your game and it loads almost immediately. Your desktop is a monster of a machine that does more than live up to it’s name. It surpasses it. It runs even the most newly released games smooth as refrigerated animal lard. You are going to cut through Calliope’s defenses with just as much ease. And you are going to kill her dead. You’re going to kill the shit out of her. 

You figure you also have some time to kill waiting for her craptop to start up. Now. Back to the matter at hand. Which is.

You forget. 

You stare at your computer screen for a bit, trying to process the images and bright colours. Why are there so many highlighter colours trying to burn holes into your retinas? You feel dizzy. The type on your screen seems a little smaller than usual, like someone fucked with the zoom in/zoom out settings. Why is your screen overflowing with images of lewd puppets?

Of course. How could you have ever forgotten? Plushrump is about to swallow the bitter spooge of defeat, and you’re going to be the one hand feeding it to him by the bucketfull.

*Fuuuck* that is sweet. You always wondered what plushrump’s mating form would look like. Out of sheer cherubian curiosity and nothing more. You’ve never actually taken to the mating form yourself, but you’ve seen the pornography and you know that it’s probably the most intense feeling a cherub will ever experience. It’s something that you’ve decided to reserve for only the most infuriating and challenging of foes. Not that you’re being sentimental about it. And not that plushrump needs to know.

That is sooooooooooo fucking good. You can just imagine yourself overtaking plushrump’s puny mating form. Forcing him down as the two of you entwine, the barbs on your hemipenis grasping and clinging to his insides as you inject your egg bearing fluid into his waiting cloaca. 

\-- uranianUmbra [UU] began pestering undyingUmbrage [uu] \--

UU: are yoU ready brother?  
uu: YES.

You are ready, ready to select the most destructive weapons and slap your not-sister in the face with her own fictional mortality. Except. Fuck. You can’t stop staring at the picture. It is almost as if Dirk knows you. As if he knows your mating form is green. As if he knows the colour of the swirls on your cheeks. Impossible. You are nothing but one gray face in a million anonymously communicating to him through the internet. 

Unless. 

Unless the Dirk human is a hacker. And by some technological means has ascertained your whereabouts. You feel on edge, not quite afraid (you’re never afraid) but definitely uneasy. 

Wait. Why did you assume that was you? It’s not like you want it to be you. That’s disgusting. You would never consider taking a human as a mate, even if he had the most elegant and conquerable mating form on this dingy forsaken planet. You’re done with plushrump and the way he is clearly trying to ruse you, using your own words against you in a clusterfuck of lies. 

You’re in the middle of selecting an AK-47 when you notice the little red notification in your mailbox. Your breath catches in your throat and your mouth feels dry. No one ever sends you messages. Not that you wish they did. Or anything. This is probably just another fool thinking he can troll the shit out of you. Well this arsehole has another thing coming.

You have to reread the message twice before you realize what’s being said. When you finally comprehend who sent the message, the shittiness of your life immediately fucktuples.

Fuck. What the fuck. How did he find out it was you? You feel like smashing your cranium against the hard, inviting surface of your desk, but you decide against it. The noise would be too loud. Calliope would come running up the stairs, being nosey and concerned and asking way too many questions instead of minding her own fucking business.

Something in your chest is constricting in an uncomfortable way. A way that makes you want to rip whatever it is out of your chest. And destroy it. Possibly with your teeth. You yank your eyes away from the screen to scan your habitual nest. You aren’t sure what you’re looking for, but your eyes keep darting around anyway, sliding over the surface of your bed and snagging on the patterns on your bedcovers. They’re intricate in a way you never took the time to think about, tiny little shapes and patterns that overlap into impossible minisculity. 

Your eyes follow curves of the blanket until you’re staring at the dark space between the wooden frame and the floor. You are overcome with the sudden compulsion to check underneath your bed for monsters. 

You laugh at the thought, and the loudness of your own voice startles you. There are no monsters underneath your bed, you tell yourself. You are the monster. 

Your brain halts on that thought far too long. You congratulate yourself on the deep spiritual breakthrough you’re having. Those humans were wrong when they laughed at you, the way they said you weren’t smart enough like you couldn’t hear them. In another universe, another timeline, you snapped their necks, sawed off their limbs with the points of your fangs and bathed in their blood. 

But this isn’t another universe. This is the one you’re forced to inhabit with humans and trolls, the one with laws and rules and consequences. And, as far as you know, it’s the only one you truly exist in. 

By the time you’re crouching down in front of your bed and craning your head into the darkness, you forget what you’re looking for. Feeling foolish, you jerk your head from underneath your sleeping arrangement. Your computer screen is a blinding square of light not too far in front of you. Even from across the room you can see the message you left open on your window.

You distinctly feel watched. You’re positive it’s Dirk.

When you reach the window you have to stop and lean your forearms against the pane just to catch your breath. While you attempt not to choke on oxygen, you consider contacting Calliope. You’re not sure what for. You definitely don’t need help. Who even suggested such a thing?

You try to push the shades out of the way so that you can duck under them, but you end up breaking some of the plastic pieces in your haste. You push open the window without much effort, and stick your head outside it. You can’t see very well in the darkness, even with the aid of the few streetlights that are still working. Your tongue instinctively flickers past your lips to test the air, and you almost bite it in surprise. 

Your breath catches in your throat and you can feel your pupils dilate. You’re processing the sidewalk with increasing clarity, from the weeds poking up between the cracks to the small pebbles ingrained in the cement. You can see the specs of dirt and the footsteps of ants. You feel like someone’s fucked with the settings again, cranked up the zoom to six hundred percent. 

You realize thirty seconds too late that increased clarity comes with decreased distance. You’re falling out of your two story bedroom window, and the landing isn’t a soft one.


	5. Chapter 5

Today is the one week anniversary of the day you announced to Kankri and Cronus that you will come to a decision in thirty days or less. That means you have exactly twenty three days to decide whether you want to spend all of eternity living with a god who has only ever passed judgement on you, or a demon that has only ever enticed temptation. As far as you’re concerned, both are laughably fictitious ideas altogether. 

Speaking of laughable (and debatably fictitious) Kankri and Cronus are still fighting like cats and dogs, taking every rough path possible and rounding every corner loaded with illogicality and baseless disagreements. 

“I’m just sayin’ kitten, I’d know a mutant blood if I seen one,” Cronus says, smirking at the completely scandalized look on Kankri’s face. 

You still don’t fully understand the significance of blood color for trolls, but you don’t really care enough to ask questions. You know it’s based off an outdated caste system that’s left lots of residual blood prejudice within their community, and that’s enough for you. You don’t need to know the specifics, and besides, when it comes to Kankri it’s almost never worth asking.

“Oh, and what exactly does a “differently blooded” troll look like? Hm, Cronus? Please, feel free to enlighten me. I am genuinely opening my mind heart to your ethereal teachings. Tell me, when was the major breakthrough? Or are you the only special troll with the power of detecting blood color even when the troll is wearing color concealing contacts?” 

Cronus falters for a second, breaks eye contact with Kankri and skirts his eyes towards yours. His eyes are bleached, soaked in white-out, but you can still see the light hue of the pupil, and occasionally violet dances in his nonexistent iris when the sunlight bounces off them. That, or you’re hallucinating. At this point, both are completely possible. You’re not sure what he’s expecting to find in the darkness of your shades. Sympathy? Empathy? Humanity? Does he expect you to take his side and stick up for him? You move to turn away, only to find Kankri staring at you in an equally unnerving manner. Almost as if they expect something out of you. 

“Should I freeze frame so you two can get out your canvas and color palettes?”

Their eyes avert back to each other, and they continue the argument, albeit at a much more muted level. You return back to your phone where you decide to read all of the texts Jake’s sent you in the past forty-eight hours, so that you can pull them apart at the seams and analyze them until you know what he really means when he says, “Dirk ole buddy, you know ive missed you!”

Even after the eleventh rereading you’re positive that the use of the phrase “ive missed you” is strictly platonic and one hundred percent romantic implication free. You wonder if you can change that. You’re fairly certain you can.

“Howdy ole’ chap!” a voice exclaims, a hand thoughtlessly yanking back the curtain around your bed. To your own merit, you don’t flinch. Cronus and Kankri startle backwards though, and now they’re hovering directly above your head. Jake is standing there proudly, shameless even with thickly padded crutches stuffed under his armpits. Kankri grumbles something about trigger warnings and Cronus snickers as if he hadn’t jumped too. You chest heaves and you raise your hand in a weak greeting. 

“Jake,” your croak, trying to sound as pathetic as possible. “Can you do me a favor?”

He looks uncomfortable suddenly, regretful and mildly sympathetic. 

“What kind of a mate would I be if I couldn’t at least do my ace buddy a favor? Shoot, I’m game!” Despite the pep and enthusiasm it’s easy to tell that Jake English isn’t exactly used to helping people.

“Come closer,” you rasp. His eyes do the bulgey thing and skitter from side to side, but he hobbles closer to you nonetheless. You lower your voice to a broken whisper.

“Never...never...” you start. He swallows thickly and you see his fingers clench into a fist in your peripherals. 

“What is it?” He prompts, back bowed so that he’s practically hunched over you.

“Never say howdy again,” you finish, voice even and face expressionless. 

You know it won’t stop him. Despite not being a Texan native, Jake knows a surprising amount of Texan slang. You’re positive that it’s a hobby of his--travelling the world and collecting new vernacular and colloquialisms, stuffing it in his brain the way other people pin postcards on their walls or hang magnets on the fridge. It’s a little unorthodox, yeah, but mostly it’s just unique in a way that’d be almost charming if you didn’t have the brains and forethought to know better. 

Realization dawns on his face and he reels back to stomp his foot on the floor like a child. 

“Dag friggin’ nab it!” Your mouth twitches and you’re smiling before you can really get a grip and stop it.

“You’re too gullible,” you tell him. He takes everything at face value. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine how Jake can even get through life with that much guilelessness. Thoughtlessly, the way he does everything else, you imagine.

“You know Dirk, one day you are going to require the assistance of a top notch friend like myself, but I’ll have to decline, lest I fall for more of your cockamamie tomfoolery!” He folds his arms across his chest in front of you. You snort.

“As if I’ll ever need your help. More likely that you’ll come crying to me.” He waves you off in a gesture than can only be described as flippantly overconfident. You can kick his ass on a bad day, and you both know it. Or, at least, you used to be able to, before the bad days meant waking up vomiting and not being able to make it to the bathroom without assistance. 

“All shenanigans and funny business aside, I’ve come to rescue you from all this...” he glances around your room. “Humdrum,” he finishes. You resist the the urge to snort again. All this snorting can’t be good for your condition. 

“I thought we were putting all funny business aside,” you say. He scowls.

“Frigs flippin’ sake, I’m being completely serious here! Business like, even.”

You decide to cut the poor guy a break, though you know he doesn’t deserve one. Jake has been skating through life by the skin on his teeth for as long as you’ve known him, and you’re sure it didn’t start there. He puts the minimum amount of effort into anything that isn’t completely self-serving, but somehow you still don’t hate him for it. No one does. Even teachers are afflicted by his sweeping smile and inadvertent deception. You’ve seen him pass tests on sheer willpower and empty promises to improve. The worst part about Jake being Jake, is that for all he’s thoughtless and hurtful the bastard is completely innocuous, and fuck yourself in the ass with a broom handle, his calves are to die for.

“Unless, I mean--golly, Dirk! Unless you aren’t well enough, I mean.” He’s been asking you something--to go somewhere, you can figure out that much. You don’t even bother to ask for specifics. This is Jake English, showing an ounce selflessness and concern. Basically, a once in a lifetime opportunity. Besides, have you mentioned he’s wearing the shorts that show off his lower legs?

And that’s exactly how you end up agreeing to play video games with Jake English in the Rockets Room.

The Rockets Room is supposed to be this hip, comfortable place for teen patients with extended hospital stays to hang out, watch television, and interact with their peers. (Honestly, you’re not even sure if Jake is supposed to be in here.) The Houston Rockets sponsored the whole thing, and it’s obvious in the huge posters on the walls of the basketball team playing and perspiring mid-game. From what you’ve heard, sometimes actual players from the team take time from their busy millionaire lives to come and visit all the hopelessly sick incarcerated teens and kids at Children’s Memorial Hermann Hospital. 

Unfortunately, you don’t give a single solitary shit about sports, so to the you the entire room is just shamelessly gimmicky. The main area is just big enough to be spacious, just small enough to be cozy, with brown leather chairs and loveseats accompanied by matching tan-almost-orange footstools. The area rug underneath the furniture is one of those conventional Ikea rugs with a monotonous pattern of overlapping circles in neutral colors. Whatever happened to creativity? Where the carpet ends, the hard flooring begins--cheap cream colored shit that mimics hardwood floor at half the cost. There’s a few circular tables surrounded by equally as unexciting chairs with stiff backs. The walls are cream colored to match, except for the long stretches of Rockets posters. The whole affair reminds you of Reese's peanut butter Cup.

Hell, at least there’s a computer off to the side--though you’re sure Jake will pitch a fit if you try to use it.

“Don’t get too over excited now! I know you’re gung ho to the max about all of this!” 

You trail behind him as he heads for the loveseat in the main room. You glance around before taking a seat, as if there’s anyone in the hospital to embarrassed by. Jake plops in front of the flat screen television across from you, pulling open the cabinet doors connected to the off-white countertop beneath it. He shuffles around and the tv blinks on, and before you know it he’s passing you a controller and urging to prepare yourself for a serious smackdown.

“Hope you’re ready for a virtual buttwhoopin’!” Jake exclaims as he selects his character. He picks Zero Suit Samus, presumably because she’s a “blue babe” but mostly because he’s predictable. You select Pikachu, because, hey, who’s to say you aren’t subject to some foreseeable decisions yourself?

You quickly come to realize that Jake plays video games with exact same technique he uses in his daily life, i.e., none at all. He runs into battle button mashing with shameful enthusiasm. His whole body lurches forward when he tries to make a particularly risky jump, and you notice that he sticks out his tongue like a buffoon when he plays too--not that you’re watching him. 

After kicking Jake’s ass for the sixth time in a row, you’re starting to feel disinterested. You’ve never considered yourself especially good at video games, but jesus christ, this is the fourth time Jake’s asked you how to block attacks. How hard is it to press some buttons and memorize the combinations that deal the most damage?

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” You ask, because there’s only so much entertainment in winning against a guy who plays with the hand-eye-coordination of a ninety year old man with untreated carpal tunnel. Jake shakes his head and waves you off for the second time today.

“Nonsense, mate. I can dish out whatever you’re serving!” 

You resign to play a few more rounds, if only because you want to hear what ridiculous slang Jake will shout out next. Each round you wonder if you should at least switch your character to the Pokemon Trainer or something, but each time you end up choosing Pikachu anyway. Jake’s stands by Samus with unwavering loyalty.

By the eleventh victory you’re starting to feel like an old man with carpal tunnel. 

“Shitknickers!” Jake blurts out as you deliver a final Thundershock to Samus, effectively destroying Jake’s only remaining life. 

He takes his twelfth defeat with just as irritatingly good sportsmanship, and he even has the nerve to turn to you and grin. You want to wipe that smile clean off Jake’s face, but only so that he’ll work even harder to improve, and definitely not because you’re using the Pokemon Stadium on Super Smash Brothers Brawl as a virtual battlefield to direct any surreptitious feelings of rage about a certain friend that went MIA when you got diagnosed. Never.

“Holy bologna!” Jake shouts, when you beat your own record and drain his three lives in less than thirty seconds flat. His unusual exclamations have become less interesting and more unnerving. You tell yourself it’s not a Big Deal, and that he isn’t doing it On Purpose, he’s just being Jake English.

“Are you even trying?” You ask, trying your best to sound casual and mildly mocking. You’re pretty certain that you’re pulling it off.

Jake guffaws and erupts into laughter. The noise echoes in your eardrums and it’s just enough to push you over the edge. 

“Jake, are you even memorizing the controls? Or are you just having at it like a kid button mashing a Pokemon--”

“Pokemans?” Someone asks, mangling the pronunciation horribly. You recognize the voice. Holy cum gargling bukake monster, why now of all times? You force yourself to turn slowly so you don’t give yourself whiplash craning your neck too suddenly like Jake.

“Hey woobie,” Bro says, staring down at you over the rims of his shades. You can almost see the blood red of his irises. 

He pushes the frames up with his index finger like the cool type from a reverse harem anime. If only he had the domineering height and expressionless voice to complete the image. Well shit, if only you lived in a perfect world. Dave Strider barely pushes five feet eight inches, and the height disparity between you is less than a quarter of an inch and decreasing with every passing day. You can’t wait to lord your superior height over his head, literally and metaphorically, but somehow he manages to make each inch you grow seem less like an accomplishment and more like being one step closer to being freakishly giant. You know he’s only kidding when he calls you a circus freak.

“Eggderp number two,” Dave says, inclining his head in Jake’s direction. 

“Hi Mr. Strider!” Jake waves with entirely too much enthusiasm. Dave turns his attention back to you.

“You still messing with that Japanese shit?” You know he doesn’t really care about what you like, and you’re not even as into Japanese culture as you used to be (sometimes you look back on that slightly more obsessed, thirteen year old version of yourself, and cringe.) Besides, it isn’t as if you’ve just been spending your days stuck in the hospital re-watching Evangelion and Mobile Suit Gundam. No, that was last week. This week you’ve started Fruit’s Basket, which despite it’s inability to avoid the common tropes of it’s genre, is still entertaining, and at times, even heartwarming. You add it to the mental list of things that your Bro does not ever need to know about.

You shrug him off.

“Sure you’re not actually a thirteen year old Japanese girl on the inside?” For a split second you entertain the idea that he can read your thoughts. It’s too ridiculous, even for you.

He shoves a box of strawberry pocky against your chest. You take it from him, staring down at the broken seal.

“Still struggling with self-control?” you ask.

“Pfft, you wish,” he says, laughing a little. “I was making sure it wasn’t poisoned you ungrateful brat.” He ruffles your hair like you’re still in elementary school and you grit your teeth. Jake snickers from behind you on the couch.

“Mind if I steal your boyfriend for a bit?” Dave asks him, and Jake looks genuinely dumbfounded.

“Boyfriend?” He asks, arching an eyebrow. 

You can feel all of your muscles tense, from the tips of your toes to your eyelids. Your blood runs cold. You are in the middle of a full body recoil, and everything from your hair follicles to your spleen is in full emergency panic mode. Dave glances at your face and stiff stature and sends you an apologetic look.

“I was being ironic,” Dave says quickly. Jake emits one of the fakest laughs you’ve ever heard.

“You and Dirk have quite the...unconventional sense of humor!”

The trip back to your hospital room isn’t as awkward as it could be, especially because you keep shoving pocky in your mouth every time Bro asks you a question that you don’t know how to answer. They’re mostly questions about how you’ve been feeling, how the chemo’s been treating you, and how you’re handling it. You don’t want to tell him you’ve been feeling like shit, it’s been treating you like shit, and you’ve been handling it just as shittily--by hallucinating creatures fighting over the soul that will rise out of your body with your imminent death. 

When you step into your hospital room Dave tells you everything is going to be fine. Easy for him to say. 

“You’re not the one they’re going to operate on,” you tell him. Dave winces and quickly glances away from the morphine drip. You follow his gaze to the window where there’s a few crows perch on the telephone wire just outside. It’s easy to say everything is going to be okay when you’re not the one who’s going to have his body sliced up like a Thanksgiving Day turkey.

You sit down on the corner of the hospital bed and resist the urge to put your shades on. You don’t want more commentary from Dave about the stupid anime shape. You know he doesn’t mean that shit, but it’s not funny and you’re sick of hearing about it. You wish Dave would just do whatever it is he came here to do and then get the hell out. You want to draw the curtains on your bed and hide under the starchy white sheets. You know it’s childish, but you’d rather look like a little kid than have another awkward conversation with your brother where he tells you everything is going to be the same, that you’ll still be you after the operation, like you’re some kind of an idiot that doesn’t know that.

“Dirk,” he says it in his serious voice, and even goes so far as to take off his glasses and fold them over the pocket of his blazer. He looks like a pretentious shitface but somehow you find yourself wishing you looked more like him.

“Look, I’m trying not to get too girly and emotional up in here.” You’re surprised he’s even “up in here” at all, but you don’t say as much. He starts to say something and stops, his jaw closing silently like he’s thought better of it.

“You still pining for Jerk English?” You stare blankly at him. Does he honestly expect an answer? He doesn’t stop there, either. The embarrassment continues like a limping animal forcing itself to walk just a few steps more, despite the impending bliss death will bring.

He shrugs. “I’d ask about your sexuality, but you don’t exactly password protect your folders. Besides, I don’t care if you’re sexually attracted to tree bark, I just wanna make sure you don’t waste your time lusting after it if it’ll only ever be attracted to other trees. Understand what I’m saying here, woobie?”

Your brain buzzes on overload as you try to process the information. You finally find your voice.

“You looked through the folders on my computer?” you ask.

He makes a noncommittal noise. “I had to make sure you weren’t into snuff porn or something, you know how it is. Required guardian duties and shit. I would’ve just asked, but you never tell me anything.”

“So that means you can look through my shit?” You aren’t exactly sure why you’re trying to pick a fight right now, but you know that it doesn’t matter because Dave deserves it. He looks through your shit, pesters you for information that is none of his goddamned business, and now to top it all of he’s trying to pass it off as some kind of fucked parental concern? Yeah, right. Your bro has the maternal instincts of deadbeat Dad in Harlem that refuses to pay child support. 

“I pay for your shit, so yeah, pretty much.” You grit your teeth and try your best to brush it off. He’s just being an asshole because you won’t open up to him like some pretty little flower. Alert the presses, call the media, get in touch with the president--we’re in a state of emergency here--Dave Strider the famous movie director can’t have it his way.

You shrug your shoulders and turn away from him, reaching out to grab your laptop. You freeze when a heavy hand falls onto your shoulder. You turn around to find Dave sitting beside you. You shake your shoulder to dislodge his hand and scoot a few inches away. Bro sighs.

“Listen, buddy, I know I wasn’t always home a lot with work--”

“Isn’t that an understatement?” 

“Okay, fine, I get it. I was out pretty much all the time, and that was probably real shitty for you. I guess you just seemed so grown up sometimes--”

“Yeah, it can get pretty confusing trying trying to tell the difference between an adult and a small child when you’re barely the height of an adult yourself..”

“Dirk,” he says sharply, “I’m trying to apologize here. I get it. I fucked up, okay? Stop being a little shit about it. I’m gonna be around a lot more, so things are gonna be different now.”

Your blood is boiling. You don’t want to sit and listen to him try and pull the wool over your eyes like this is the first time the two of you have ever had this conversation. As if this is the first time he’s fucked up and promised you that things are going to be “different now.”

“Right. Trying to make the most of what little time I have left so you don’t feel guilty when you watch them bury my corpse.”

“Jesus fucking christ, Dirk,” he starts, moving to stand in front of you. He wraps his fingers around your shoulders and looks you dead in the eyes.

“Hold the melodramatic teen angst for a goddamn second, you aren’t going to die.”

You turn away from him again, shrugging off his hands and staring away from him at the bright blue walls. It reminds you a bit of Janey, and fuck, that’s definitely not something you want to think about right now. 

“You’re kidding me with this shit, right?” You don’t say anything because you don’t want to talk about it. “Dude, you’ve seen the statistics, your survival rate is pretty damn high. You’re more likely to die walking across the street or from a fucking shark attack than from this bullshit.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Cancer is complete bullshit. Chemotherapy is bullshit too. Know what else is bullshit? Losing my hair.”

“Oh fuck, you know that’s not what I meant. Stop being so difficult, you know what I’m trying to say here.” 

“Yeah, you’re right. The difference is that I don’t actually care.” 

You sit in silence for a few moments, your eyes following the movement of the birds outside the window. There’s two of them on the wire now, and one of them keeps cawing every few seconds, glancing around like it’s looking for something. You can feel Bro standing in front of you, staring at you, watching you. You’re waiting for him to apologize again. He doesn’t.

Instead you hear his footfalls retreating, and the quiet click of the door opening and closing. Good. You yank the curtain around your bed closed and slump down so that your head is just barely propped up. You open up your laptop and run your fingers across the trackpad.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling timaeusTestified [TT] \--

CG: I LIVE ABOVE THE BIGGEST DICK IMAGINABLE.  
CG: HE IS A DICK OF UNFATHOMABLY EPIC PROPORTIONS.  
CG: I’M SURPRISED HE ISN’T DOING COMMERCIALS FOR DICK ENLARGING MEDICATION AND HIS FACE ISN’T ON THE COVER OF XL CONDOMS.  
CG: WAIT. FUCK.  
CG: NOT TO IMPLY THAT HE HAS A BIG DICK, JUST THAT HE IS ONE.  
CG: WHAT THE FUCK. ARE YOU THERE?  
CG: HEY, ASSHOLE. I’M NOT TYPING THIS SHIT FOR MY HEALTH.   
CG: IF I WANTED HEALTH BENEFITS I’D GO OUT AND GET A REAL JOB INSTEAD OF THIS WORK FROM HOME BULLSHIT.  
TT: Calm your troll tits.  
CG: NO. I REFUSE. I WILL ALLOW MY TITS TO FLOUNDER AROUND WITH IRREPRESSIBLE EXUBERANCE.  
TT: Gross.  
CG: YOU’RE DEFINITELY EXCLUSIVELY INTO DICK, THEN?   
CG: “GAY,” OR WHATEVER USELESS TERM HUMANS HAVE FOR THIS SHIT.  
TT: Why, interested?  
CG: YOU WISH. EVEN IF HUMANS COULD GRASP THE FULL SPECTRUM OF TROLL ROMANCE--WHICH THEY CAN’T--I WOULD NEVER CONSIDER FILLING A QUADRANT WITH ONE.  
TT: What about a bucket?  
CG: WHAT THE FUCK.  
CG: HAVE SOME CLASS.  
CG: DO YOU SERIOUSLY THINK I’M THE KIND OF TROLL WHO FILLS PAILS OUT OF QUADRANT?  
TT: Well, you always seemed kind of slutty. If we’re being completely honest here.  
CG: FUCK YOU.  
TT: Can’t, we’d have to fill a quadrant first.  
CG: OKAY, FINE. I LEFT MYSELF OPEN FOR THAT ONE.  
TT: Yeah, you did.  
TT: You’re way off your game.  
TT: Is the new neighbor bothering you that much?  
CG: SPEAKING OF HIM.  
TT: Oh boy. What’d he do this time?   
CG: I THINK ALL THIS BULLSHIT HAS BEEN AN EMBARRASSING ATTEMPT AT CALIGINOUS FLIRTING.  
TT: What makes you say that?  
CG: REMEMBER HOW HE GAVE ME HIS CHUMHANDLE?  
TT: How could I forget? You went on about it like he asked you to butter his muffin.  
CG: WHAT?  
CG: YOU KNOW WHAT, NEVERMIND. I DON’T ACTUALLY WANT TO KNOW WHAT THAT EUPHEMISM IS SUPPOSED INSINUATE.  
CG: ANYWAY, HE GAVE ME HIS NUMBER.  
TT: So is that how troll for “I want to hatefuck your plush rump,” or am I missing something?  
CG: NO, IT ISN’T.   
CG: BUT HE’S ALSO BEEN PLAYING THE SAME PIECE OF SHIT SONG FOR TWO DAYS STRAIGHT JUST BECAUSE HE KNOWS IT GRINDS MY FUCKING GEARS.  
TT: Oh shit, sound the caliginous alarms.  
TT: What song?  
CG: LIKE I GIVE A SHIT WHAT THE TITLE IS.  
TT: What’s the chorus?  
CG: I DON’T FUCKING KNOW.  
TT: He’s been playing it for two days straight and you don’t eve know the chorus?  
TT: Either you’re exaggerating about the length of time he’s been playing it, or you have the shittiest memory known to man.  
CG: OKAY. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.  
CG: I DIDN’T REALIZE I WAS ON TRIAL. IF I HAD KNOWN I WAS GOING TO BE INTERROGATED I WOULD HAVE TAKEN NOTES.   
TT: Stop stalling.  
CG: . . .  
TT: Do you seriously not remember the words?  
CG: “ALWAYS I WANT TO BE WITH YOU AND MAKE BELIEVE WITH YOU AND LIVE IN HARMONY HARMONY...”  
TT: Whoa dude.  
TT: This sounds serious.  
CG: FUCK. YOU THINK SO?  
TT: He’s basically proposing kismesis marriage.   
CG: FUCK YOU. THAT’S NOT EVEN A THING.  
TT: No, but seriously.  
TT: You gonna tap that choice caliginous ass?  
CG: FUCK NO.  
CG: I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE.  
CG: AND STOP USING CALIGINOUS LIKE AN ADJECTIVE.   
TT: Does he sound hot at least?  
CG: HOW THE TABLE FLIPPING FUCK WOULD I KNOW?  
TT: Oh, I don’t know, probably because he gave you his fucking number.  
CG: LIKE I’D GRACE THAT CLASSLESS NOOK WHIFFING MORON’S SOUND TUBES WITH DECADENCE OF MY SMOOTH VELVETY VOICE.  
TT: Right.  
CG: SHIT.  
CG: YOU REALLY THINK I SHOULD CALL HIM?  
TT: I don’t know, do you always want to be with him?  
TT: In harmony, harmony, harmony?  
CG: I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHY I BOTHER TO ASK FOR YOUR OPINION.  
CG: IT’S COMPLETELY USELESS.  
TT: You’re welcome.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] is now an idle chum.

Karkat’s melodramatic relationship struggles only manage to distract you momentarily. Now you’re stuck alone in your hospital room, without even the grating sound of Jake’s voice to keep you company. You consider texting him, if only briefly, before deciding to stare blankly at the ceiling instead. You’re used to Kankri and Cronus hovering over you, but it seems the closer you get to your surgery, and thus, your impending death, the less they’re around. You feel like that’s a little ass backwards, like they should vying for your soul now more than ever, but what do you know about the soul stealing business anyway?

You startle more than you’d like to admit when your phone vibrates in your pocket. You ignore it and pull Lil Cal out from under your pillow and proceed to lay him on your chest in a way that is not at all childlike. You stare at him resting on your stomach.

“Bro’s an asshole,” you tell him. Cal agrees with you. He always does. 

Your phone vibrates three more times, and you finally yank it out of your pocket in exasperation. The first message is from Dave, and you almost refuse to open it on principal before curiosity gets the best of you.

You snort in a manner that is one part aggravated, one part amused, and two parts definitely not touched by your brother’s ironic sentimentally. You don’t reply to the text because you aren’t sure what to say, and because you’re definitely still pissed at Dave for, for--something. The next two are from Jake.

You can’t help but be a little curious. You don’t know much about cherubs, especially since they live on the outskirts of town, far from the swanky apartment you share with your brother. You have seen them before, or, more specifically, you’ve seen one. He used to go to your school, and though you didn’t share any classes together sometimes you managed to catch a glimpse of green skin in the hallway on your way to lunch.

Well, you can’t argue with that logic. You’ve never seen someone chew off their own leg. 


	6. Chapter 6

You are standing in the recovery wing in front of room 413, because even though you’re sure this cherub is miles off the old rocker, you absolutely have to meet him. You’ve seen many cherubs in your travels, less so than trolls, but still, you’ve met more than most people will see in their lifetime. You’re interested in cherubs in a way you can’t rightly explain. What with their green skin and forked tongue and undeniably roguish nature--well, you can’t help but think they’re the dog’s bollocks! You’ve even got a shirt with a graphic styled cherub head on it!

Unfortunately, they aren’t exactly a social species, but you so desperately want to know one personally that you’re certain if he just gives you a chance, you can change that. You’ve heard that cherubs are aggro little buggers by nature, but you’ve also heard they’ve a weakness for sweets, and so with any luck you’ll be able to swindle your way into his room on lollis alone. 

You’re name is--well, now that you’re thinking about it, you hope Cherubs aren’t picky--because you didn’t exactly buy the widest variety of candy, now did you? Ole Jakey, you really didn’t think this through! What if cherubs don’t even like suckers? What if they prefer chocolate? You hope the whole thing isn’t completely botched up.

“What the fuck do you want?” Well, then.

“The name’s Jake English,” you tell him, outstretching your arm to shake his hand.

Oh, that reminds you! 

Your name is Jake English, and you are currently standing face to face with a very displeased cherub. The reason you’re in the hospital in the first place is because just the other day you fell out of a tree, mid-adventure. The doctors insist it’s a stable fracture and you’ll be leaving the hospital any day now. You aren’t in any particular hurry, however, as your best mate Dirk is also staying at said hospital, and now with the appearance of a cherub, you’re sure you’re going to get up to all sorts of unpredictable hijinks.

“I don’t care who you are. What the fuck do you want?”

Well gosh, isn’t he just cross as a frog in a sock! You try your best to explain. “Oh, well I heard that cherubs are quite fond of sweets, and I just happen to have this bag of lollies, but if you’d rather I go, I completely understand--”

“Get inside.”

He yanks you inside his room with quite a bit of strength for someone who was just brought into the hospital on a stretcher the day before. You hear a strange clicking noise and you realize that jesus devilfucking dickins, this chap has got a metal leg!

“Jealous?” he sneers, bending and unbending the leg for show. You blink about three times in rapid succession.

“Am I ever!” He grins triumphantly, showcasing his fangs and the single golden tooth at the end. You wonder if the original was knocked out whilst roughhousing. He seems like the type to enjoy a good tumble.

“Now where’s the candy?” he demands to know.

You offer the bag to him and he snatches it from your hands, hobbling awkwardly over to the bed where he sits down and attempts to open the packaging. You’re about to offer your charitable help when the bag bursts open and candy flies into the air in a dramatic, sugary explosion.

“Fuuuck!”

You don’t mean to laugh at another’s misfortune, and it’s an honest mistake, really, but a chuckle or two does manage to escape you. 

“Shut your human laugh-hole!” You manage to stifle the rest of your laughter, but only just barely.

“What the fuck is this useless trash anyway? Was the cheap shitty candy store having a sale on knock-off variety bags from last Halloween?” You cover your amusement behind your hands and a dumdum knocks you upside your noggin.

“You hideous fuckup,” the cherub mutters, tearing the wrapping off of a cherry dumdum and stuffing it into his mouth. You stand awkwardly in the middle of the room before deciding that picking up candy off the floor of a newly crippled cherub’s hospital room is definitely the gentlemanly thing to do.

“Mind if I ask your name, my good sir?” you ask, crouching down and scooping handfuls of candy into the ripped plastic bag.

“No,” he says, crunching down on the candy in his mouth. 

Hoo boy, does this bloke have some serious gumption! You have to admit you admire his straightforwardness, though he could definitely use a lesson or two in tact. 

“Right o! So, um...”

“Out with it you stupid shit. What the fuck do you want?” It comes out sounding scorched, so sizzling it almost burns. You aren’t quite sure what to say to him. You’re sort of floundering about your brain, fossicking for something--anything--at least mildly intelligent to say. 

“So, about your leg,” you start, and you think a little too late that maybe it’s a touchy subject. Well, might as well finish what you’ve started. “Did you really chew it off? And Was that just a temporary mental episode or are you really just completely off your trolley--”

“Stop,” he says, and you do. “Cease talking. Completely. Immediately.”

You shut your lips tight as a drum and wait for the cherub to say something. He doesn’t. Instead he just stuffs his mouth full of more candy, chomping down until there’s a small pile of lolly sticks at his feet. He licks his lips and claws, and finally, just when you are feeling overcome with the need to remind him of your presence, his attention focuses on you.

“Now cut the bullshit. What do you want?” He glares at you, but he starts back up again before you can even unzip your lips. “And don’t tell me that you’re some kind of fucking,” he makes a vague motion to the mess of the floor before continuing. “Candy delivery man. Because that is not a thing. It’s fucking bullshit, is what it is.”

You shake your head. “I’m not trying to come to the raw prawn here!” you say. “I’ve just got a natural intellectual curiosity about--”

“What fucking prawns? This has nothing to do with shrimp.” You resist the urge to groan. This guy’s definitely got some kangaroos loose in the top paddock--not that you’re one to be throwing stones!

“I told you to cut the bullshit, or are your flimsy human ears broken?”

“Right then! The truth of the matter is I’m undeniably fascinated with your species, and I’ve never really had the opportunity to, well, really get to know a cherub. I find learning sort of stimulating in it’s own way, but I’m less of a books lad and more of a hand’s on sort of fellow--if you catch my drift!”

You can see his thick lashes when he blinks, and his brow furrows with a scowl. It’s starkly feminine when compared to the rest of him.

“Ha! Is that some thinly veiled sex proposition?” You sputter and shake your head as he continues. “Thanks for the laugh. Not that you’re funny. Or anything. Regardless, I reject your pathetic attempt at courting.”

“No! That wasn’t meant to sound dirty at all!” 

He snorts. “Good. As if you could.” You can’t help but wonder how that sentence might continue. Is this guy implying you're not a man of the highest possible caliber, that you couldn’t sweep any dame or fella off his or her feet it you really gave it the old college try?

“As if I could what?”

“Carry my egg,” he says, grinning like the chesire cat. “Your puny human body could never sustain. Such strength.”

Well then. While you were definitely aware that cherubs laid eggs--same as trolls, really--you’d never given it much thought about who carried the egg, and especially not how the process itself works out. You know it involves flying and some sort of epic space battle that would almost be interesting if the loser wasn’t forced to the bear the winner’s offspring. That just doesn’t sound like a fair deal at all!

Still, you feel a bit miffed that he presumes that that if it were biologically possible for you to carry an egg, you would too weak to do so. You’re Jake English, a high-class, able-bodied adventurer and you’ve played games with crocodiles and been scuffed up more than you’re willing to admit. You’re certain you can handle carrying a measly old egg.

“Hmm, I’m not so sure about that!” You tell him, preferring to leave your intent somewhat ambiguous to spark his interest and incite further conversation. You’ve been looking left, right, and centre for a cherub to befriend, and you aren’t going to cock it all up now.

“What?” he says, eyes flickering between you and the lollies.

“About your egg! I’m a pretty robust guy, in case you haven’t noticed, and I’m sure I’m more than capable of carrying anything you throw at me--egg or otherwise!”

“Ha! I fucking knew it. You were propositioning me. I’m not surprised.” 

“That’s not it at all! I’m not even certain something like that is in the realm of possibility, much less.” You shake your head. “Look, let me start over. I’m just sort of hoping that maybe we can get to know each other, hang out, become mates maybe--” 

He stares at you in disbelief, like he really thinks you’re dishing out falsifications to cover up some sort of secret fancy for him. As intriguing as cherubs are, you’re sure that romantically they’re not your cup of tea. 

“Mates. That sounds pretty fucking--”

“Friends!” you clarify. You start to open your mouth again but he cuts you off.

“You shitlicking moron. I don’t have any friends. I don’t even think that’s a thing. For my people, the word for friends is flaws.” You rub the palm of your hand at the nape of your neck, feeling quite silly.

“Really?”

He smacks his palm against his skull “Jesus fuck you’re gullible,” he says disbelievingly. “No, not really,” he snaps, meaner. “But it should be. Because that’s what so called “friends” are. A fucking thorn in my side. Which is exactly why I don’t have any. At all. Because who needs a fucking thorn stabbing their guts all day?”

It’s going exactly as you feared, downhill and into a big pile of mud and rocks. You’ve really thrown a spanner in the works, haven’t you? Just as the last of your confidence is crumbling, he gives in.

“Fine. You have a choice. Either get the fuck out, or make yourself less useless.” 

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, feeling awkward. “Up for a game of cards, then?” You ask. You’re not sure what else you have to offer. You’re waiting for rejection and a swift kick out the door, but his eyes sharpen and he grins.

“A game? You’re challenging me? Ha! Prepare yourself loser. To lose worse than you’ve ever lost before.”

You’re midway through your second round of “Go Fish” and you feel you’re off to ripsnorter of a good start! You learn that his name is Caliborn, that he ended up in the hospital after falling out his third story bedroom window, and that he lives with another cherub that most definitely isn’t his sister and he hates her very much--but not in a romantic sort of way. You haven’t quite worked out how cherub romance works, but hell, you can barely remember the troll quadrants on a good day. All these interspecies shenanigans can get mighty confusing!

You tell him about your cousin John, and how you have been staying here in America with him now that you aren’t traveling with your parents anymore. You tell him that high school is much different than being homeschooled, and you were sort of unprepared and worried at first. You were lucky enough to transfer into a school with a good friend, and you quickly became close to his friends as well. Lalonde and Crocker and Strider are all that cat’s pajamas, but sometimes you get the feeling that Dirk goes about everything arse to front, so much so that you aren’t even quite sure what it is he’s trying to communicate to you half the time!

“And then he wouldn’t answer me, I suppose to teach me some sort of lesson, but sometimes I just wish that he--”

“I literally could not care any less. Than I care now. It is physically impossible for me to give a single solitary fuck about what you are saying to me.”

You laugh because you are slowly realizing that cherubs are funny in their own way, and that once you learn to ignore their initial bad attitude, they aren’t half-bad at all.

“Right-o! Now I’m not saying Strider isn’t a stand up chap, because he is. I would never no go behind his back and say anything less than complimentary--I’m that sort of a gentleman! But I also have to be honest with you, and myself, and  
ever since he got diagnosed with this cancer business, he’s been nothing but a sore thumb, you follow?”

“Well it’s about fucking time,” Caliborn says, and you haven’t the faintest idea what he’s referring to. “That you revealed your shitty ruse. I know what’s going on here.”

“You do?” You sure don’t.

“Of course the fuck I do. Listen, you might not know this, but I don’t have a normal brain. I’m special, got it?” You’re not sure if this is Caliborn’s admission to being mentally challenged or if this whole thing is just flying straight over your ears and into the cuckoo’s nest.

“My brain is so special. That I notice things. Shit normal people don’t see. And I’ve uncovered the sheep’s fur from my eyes, Jake!” You start to protest, but he cuts you off. “If that is your real name!”

You sigh, exasperated. “What are you getting at, mate?” You ask.

“I’m getting at your shitty red herrings. I’m onto you. You think if you talk enough shit, you can get me to forfeit! You think you can kill me with a migraine before I can kick your ass at this game? You’ve got another thing coming! Cherub biology is far superior--” Were you really talking that much? Enough to induce a migraine? Maybe cherubs have more delicate dispositions than you realized!

“Whoa, I think you’re jumping to some mighty strange conclusions! It’s not like that all!”

“Fat fucking chance. So fucking fat that it’s chin has chins. It’s got more rolls than a fucking bread shop. The chance is so unlikely that it’s morbidly obese and on the verge of a goddamn heart attack it’s arteries are so clogged. That’s the only explanation. That has logic. You’re here to defeat me at this game, force me into failure! You think you can woo me with shitty bargain bin candy?”

“That’s a big load of hogswallop!” you start, with full intentions to back up your exclamation with facts.

You reach out to touch his shoulder with your palm--an attempt at a calming gesture more than anything else--but his claws close around your wrist before you can make contact. He bares his pointed teeth and you can feel little pin pricks of pain in your wrist. Your explanation dies in your throat. Caliborn looks mad as a cut snake. You swallow nervously.

“Mate?” You ask when you finally muster up the courage.

“I’m not your fucking mate.” Caliborn says, eyes unblinking. “You know I can snap your fucking wrist, right? Like a toothpick.”

You can’t stop the smile from forming on your face. “You suggesting a wrestling match?”

The cards remain untouched on the hospital bed while the two of you roll around on the ground. He’s stronger than you by miles, but he hasn’t had nearly enough practice with his prosthetic to have full functionality of his left leg. Still, he manages to best you three times and knock your head against the wall before you decide that you shouldn’t be getting up to this much roughhousing with your ankle in a cast. You half-hoped you’d injure something else and you’d be able to postpone your return to school by another few weeks.

You’re hunched over, bracing yourself with your hands on your knees while he smiles triumphantly from the hospital bed and eats the last of the dumdums. 

“You’re not completely terrible. For a human. By cherub standards you’re still a scaleless hatchling,” he says disdainfully. Despite his tone he’s grinning like a shot fox, and you can’t help but do the same. Your heart is still beating unusually fast and you can feel the blood pumping through your veins. You feel sweaty and a little achy, but perfectly satisfied. 

“Guess I’ll have to get some practice in before our next match!” 

You think briefly of Dirk, of the roughhousing the two of you used to get up to together whenever your parents let you go visit John in Austin. You almost always ended up staying with Dirk for days at a time. Mr. Strider never seemed to mind and John was less of a cousin, more of a boring uncle anyway. He was always poking around on his computer instead of off having an adventure.

You ask for Caliborn’s pesterchum before bidding him goodbye, and you’re feeling like today is completely salvageable after all. Not that it ever wasn’t. You head to the cafeteria in hopes of finding something mildly edible. You wouldn’t ever call yourself a picky eater, but this hospital food is something else. You’ve had fried african bugs that were easier to stomach! Actually, now that you’re thinking about it, you could go for some chocolate covered ants. They’ve got a sort of crunch and subtle taste that you’ve yet to find replicated in any other sweets. You wonder if Caliborn would enjoy them.

You’re standing in line for a little more than two shakes of a lamb’s tail when you realize Dirk is standing directly in front of you. You’re about to tap him be he turns his head first and your hand is left awkwardly hovering in the air. You drop it to your side and smile.

“Your elbow is bleeding,” he says. You bend your arm and glance down. 

“Bollocks,” you mutter, wiping at the blood with your thumb. You suck the blood off your finger without thinking about it. Dirk stares at you like you’ve gone and grown three heads.

“Cal can get a little dodgy with his claws,” you offer as an explanation. He raises an eyebrow over his shades.

“Cal?” 

“The cherub! The one with the metal leg--we’re great mates now!”

Strider makes a pretentious noise in the back of his throat, not quite a scoff, not quite a sigh. You can’t know for sure but you’re fairly certain he’s just rolled his eyes too. “What did you do? Show up with a bag of old candy and propose a wrestling match?” His ability to predict your actions doesn’t surprise you anymore. He’s been able to do it for as long as you can remember. 

The two of you sit at a small both in the cafeteria and you proceed to tell him everything you’ve learned about cherubs. It’s quite a bit, you realize. You tell him more specifically about Caliborn, about how the two of you share many interests and the way he finds you running your mouth hilariously entertaining. He’s a darn good wrestler, too! Dirk nods his head and quips sarcastically during the appropriate pauses, but something about him is still distinctly melancholy. It’s starting to make you feel a little down yourself. Why can’t Dirk have a more positive outlook about life? You understand he’s got a disease or terminal illness or whatnot, but you aren’t letting your fractured ankle get you down, now are you?

You’re finishing up a sorry excuse for peas when something brushes against your calf. At first you think it’s the leg of the table, and after the second time, you realize it’s Dirk. You’re not really sure what that means, so you continue to have a conversation like it isn’t happening at all. You invite Dirk back to your hospital room and feel distinctly scandalous, like you’re inviting him back to have a shag. You’re pretty sure you aren’t, but it still feels that way and you don’t know why.

When you reach the room you sit down on your bed, bouncing a bit to test the springs. Dirk stands awkwardly by the doorway until you wave him over, wherein he begins to stand awkwardly in front of your hospital bed instead. Your room isn’t nearly as colorful as his, but there is some art hanging on the wall by whom you can only assume are various five year olds with too much time on their hands and limited motor skills. Or Caliborn. 

“Gonna stand there all day?” 

He shakes his head and sits on the opposite side of the bed. Without video games and jolly conversation to distract you the atmosphere feels stilted and still, and it’s making you mildly uneasy. It feels like there’s something hanging in the air, but you don’t know you’re supposed to do about it, and you’ve no idea what it even is. Have you done something wrong? There’s an uncomfortable feeling ebbing away at the contents of your stomach, the sort of feeling you used to get when you were a small child and your parents called you inside by your full name. The anxious, uneasy feeling that you’re about to get a good talking to.

“Have I botched something up again?” you ask, just to be sure. 

Dirk shakes his head no but in a distinctly yes you have way, like he’s horribly disappointed in you. Your friends are always disappointed in you for something or other, but with Dirk it’s more serious and it sort of hurts when you look at him.

Something brushes your hands and you ignore it because it’s probably just a fly or the wind or your overactive imagination but nope that’s definitely your best bro’s hand. His fingers are warm and cover most of your own. It isn’t the first time you and Dirk have done something like this, but it’s the first time you’ve actually considered what it implies and you wonder if it means what you think it does and how long Dirk has had those sort of intentions towards you?

“Well then,” you say, because your mouth feels dry and because the silence is nearly suffocating. 

This isn’t as bad as you thought it. And here you were thinking that you’re about to be get in trouble for something. Not that’s you’ve done anything wrong, at least, not that you know of. Well, if you’re being completely honest with yourself, you thought maybe Dirk was still holding that irrational grudge over the whole you missing a few of his calls or somesuch back when he was first diagnosed. You were busy that day, and it wasn’t as if you didn’t contact him back eventually. Dirk’s fingers curl around your palm and you’ve never been so infuriated that you can’t see his eyes behind the shades. 

You’re considering whether or not now the is the optimal time to lean in for a snog when a loud buzzing followed by a clattering to the floor makes you jump. Your glance down and notice your phone vibrating on the floor, presumably having vibrated itself right off the edge of the nearby end table. You lean off the bed to reach down and grab it, dislodging your hand from Dirk’s in the process. You flip open your phone and are greeted with a mass of notifications. Apparently since the last time you’ve checked your phone (which you’re sure was just earlier today) you’ve managed to accumulate eleven missed calls and fourteen text messages. The most recent message is from Roxy, and when you open it you are most certain that you are not a homosexual.

“Holy fucksucking ruckus!” you exclaim. Dirk shoots you a confused you look, and you can’t help but feel sympathetic. You aren’t even sure what that phrase means yourself, except that, well, erm...what’s the polite way to say this? You hear another buzz, but this time it isn’t your phone.

“Jesus cocksucking christ,” Dirk mutters. “Roxy’s tits.”

Yes, you suppose that’s the only way to phrase it afterall. No manners about it, they’re Roxy’s...melons, alright. Round and smaller than Jane’s but still indubitably symmetrical and totally capital! Not that you’re--shoot! Dag fucking nabit! You probably shouldn’t be looking at this still, should you? Any gent worth his salt would have deleted the image from both his phone and his mind by now, you’re sure of it! Then again, it wouldn’t be completely impolite to pay a fine lady like Roxy a compliment, now would it?

Your phone vibrates and you receive a series of messages from Roxy.

You figure that maybe it’s better if your keep compliments to yourself.


	7. Chapter 7

Your name is Jane Crocker, and you definitely don’t eat your feelings! You don’t bake your feelings either, regardless of how some people might suggest otherwise. You bake because it’s fun, because you want to, and because you’re gosh darned good at it, and definitely not because you’re the least bit upset about Jake never-answers-your-calls English. You’re sure there’s a perfectly good explanation for why Jake hasn’t returned any of your phone calls in the past two weeks. He has been in the hospital, after all. You wanted to go out and visit him but you never did manage to find out which hospital he was staying in. 

You know that Jake means well, and though you wish he would actually try and do well half as much as he says he will, there’s not much to be done about it.

These cupcakes though, there’s definitely something to be done about them. They still need to be frosted with the raspberry cream cheese icing you whipped up while they were still in the oven. Heaven’s, if you don’t get a move on you’re going to be late for school! It’s only four-thirty in the morning but you know it’s going to take at least half an hour to shower and fix your hair, and another hour standing in front of the mirror and trying to find something to wear that doesn’t make you look like a bloated humpback whale.

Thank goodness you’re a veritable pro at frosting cupcakes and it only takes you fifteen minutes to finish up.

You manage not to look down at all in the shower, and it only takes you three wardrobe changes before you find something in your closet that covers up your unseemly hips. You yank the oversized sweater down a little further anyway, in hopes that your bum is at least mildly hidden. It’d be nice to feel the refreshing Spring breeze on your legs, but the last thing you want to do is a wear a skirt and subject the entire school to your cottage cheese thighs and overly thick calves. 

The kitchen is a bit of a disaster, you think as you trollop down the steps. Well, there isn’t much to be done about it now. You grab your cupcake carrier (buying one from Amazon was so worth it with the amount of cupcaking that you get up to in your spare time) and head for the door. A vibration in your pocket alerts you to a text, and you fumble for your phone as you cross the driveway.

Confusion clouds your mind at the unfamiliar number. You were certain that it was Roxy, but a text from her this early in the morning is just as rare as a return call from Jake English. Dirk’s name skitters across your mind briefly, but you scrap the thought before you end up getting yourself in a tizzy.

Just great! Goodness, some dunderhead seems to have snagged your number. You wonder if it has anything to do with...well, a certain recent incident involving Roxy and a certain risque part of her anatomy. Still, you can't help but hope this is somehow an elaborate prank from your cousin John. You're fairly certain there's no way that John can be your actual cousin, but your family tree is a twisted tangle of branches on the best of days, and you're definitely not in the mood to untangle that doozy of a knot.

The phone vibrates before you can even slide it back into your pocket, and the response makes you stop in your tracks.

You power down your phone without a second thought, feeling a strange sense of triumph. If the mystery texter intends to waste your time with his pitiful bullying, he is out of luck! This is exactly the sort of cockamamie you are NOT in the mood for. You’ve dealt with enough bullies this week to last you a lifetime, and you are not going to allow some alien trash to harass you on your personal cell phone as well. 

School drags on endlessly without your friends to lighten the mood, but their lack of presence does allow you to buckle down and focus on your schoolwork. With two friends in the hospital and the other on metaphorical house arrest, you haven’t exactly spent your time doing much else. At this rate you’re going to graduate at the top of your class! 

Lunch is a quiet affair, but that doesn’t really bother you. You spend your lunch hour in the school library, poring over textbooks and taking notes. You could just as easily plop down in the lunchroom to study, but the library is relaxing. It smells like old books and there’s a table directly in front of a window where sunlight filters in and warms your back as you hunch over your binder. Besides, the last thing you need is another meal. 

“Psst.” 

You huff at the noise, irritated by the way other students attempt to turn the library into some social hub, what with their constant whispering and passing of notes. The behavior is completely elementary.

“Psst!” The voice repeats, louder and more insistent. 

You turn your head to see who the perpetrator of the crime is, he who dares to break your concentration. The perpetrator isn’t a he at all, but rather one of your female classmates. Her name is Megido, if you’re not mistaken, and she’s wearing enough makeup to be the star clown in a circus. You’re certain you two share the same sixth period biology class, and for an embarrassingly naive moment you think she’s trying to ask to copy the homework assignment that’s due in an hour.

“Tomodachi no pettanko,” she says, smiling. 

Her bright red lips transform into a strange grin, and then she starts pressing her breasts together so that her shirt shows an alarmingly inappropriate amount of cleavage. That definitely goes against the school’s dress code. Megido doesn’t seem to care. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, a little more loudly than necessary in an effort to enunciate. (She’s doesn’t speak english, but she isn’t deaf, you remind yourself.) “I only speak English,” you say slowly, eager for her to leave you alone. The exchange is attracting the attention of onlookers, and the librarian is shooting you a disdainful look over the rim of her glasses. 

“Anata no yūjin wa sukoshi oppai o motte iru,” she says, slinking around the table until her breasts are mere inches away from your face. You avert your eyes a few seconds too late, and you can already feel your face heating up. 

You find yourself wishing you’d paid a little more attention to Dirk when you were both thirteen and he was still going through his Japanese fanboy stage. “I, um. I don’t speak Japanese, so...” you say, struggling to explain.

Megido shakes her head, the loosely wrapped bun bobbing with the movement. Your eyes skitter to her horns, automatically following the smooth curvature. You’ve been living in a mixed-species city for years now but the bright candy corn colors poking from her hair still seem completely alien. 

Her smile broadens when she catches you eyeing her horns, and she runs her fingertip slowly around the edge of one. You avert your eyes immediately, because although you don’t know much about trolls you’re pretty sure that what she just did was overtly sexual. You think. If you’re being honest with yourself you can’t even remember the biological function that troll horns serve. Maybe you’re just overthinking things. 

You aren’t. 

Megido sticks out her tongue, wagging it at you. Then she leans far too much into your personal space. “Blond friend have little titty,” she whispers, before pulling away. 

The little wink she offers you ignites a raging fire deep in your gut. You may not exactly agree with Roxy’s decision to distribute pictures of her unclothed chest, but that’s her business. It certainly isn’t any of Megido’s, and you find yourself wishing she spoke fluent in English just so you could tell her off. You imagine what it would be like to let the flames licking at your chest rise to your throat, to scream at her and tell her just what you think about her garish makeup and short skirts. 

Instead you end up sitting in a bathroom stall with your books on your lap, feeling pathetic. Not for the first time today, you contemplate forcing yourself to throw up. You don’t follow through with the thought because you still remember the time you did back in eighth grade, and the way you only felt worse afterward, doubly ashamed and just as gross.

You’re so thoroughly involved in hating your body that you don’t notice someone’s entered the bathroom until it’s too late. A knock on the stall door shocks you into action, shoving your shirt down from where you were examining your pudgy stomach. 

“I’ll just be a moment,” you stutter out. You barely have enough time to wonder why the mystery knocker isn’t using one of the nearby free stalls when she rattles your door again.

“Almost done!” you exclaim, smoothing out your shirt and slinging your backpack over your shoulder.

“I trout it,” says an annoyed voice. “What the shell you doin’ in there girl, takin’ a shit?”

You grimace, fingers hovering above the lock. The fish puns mean that it’s probably one of those sea-trolls, the ones with the gills and fins that make you even more uncomfortable than the horns and gray skin. You can’t help but think they look bizarrely out of place on land. Still, she isn’t going to just disappear. You inhale deeply and unlock the door, praying that she can’t tell you’ve been crying. 

“Damn girl,” the troll says when the door finally swings open. “You smell like a glubbin’ ocean!” she exclaims. 

Your eyes widen and your face heats with humiliation. You rush past the troll without looking at her, fingers trembling as you grapple for the door handle. Trolls are exceptionally fast, and she beats you to the door before you can get a proper grip. You tug at the handle anyway, but she leans her weight against it, sufficiently blocking your exit. Breathless and trapped, you force yourself not to cry. 

“Hey girl, uh...” the sea troll says awkwardly. You stare idly at the floor and blink back tears. “I didn’t mean that in close your legs way or anyfin.”

You take a deep breath and look up, jaw tense. The troll looks only vaguely familiar, in the way that most of the faces in your small school do. She has abnormally bright pink eyes and long braids that rest on her shoulders and nearly reach her waist. You don’t know her personally, of course. 

“Excuse me,” you choke out, pulling on the door.

“Meenah,” she says.

Something awkward coils in your stomach. “Um.”

“My name’s Meenah,” she explains. “And maybe that was a bad choice a words earlier or whatever but I wasn’t talkin’ about your ladyparts so calm your calm already.”

You may have overreacted, just a bit, but who the heck goes around telling other girls they smell like an ocean? And in a bathroom of all places! 

“I meant your face,” she says, and when you look affronted she rushes to explain. “The tears,” she elaborates, gesturing with her hands. You cock your head to the side and she sighs. “You smell like tears, like saltwater!” she shouts, frustrated. 

Oh. Well that isn’t quite as rude but it’s still a strange thing to say to someone you don’t know very well. “You don’t have many human friends, do you?” you ask. 

Meenah snorts. “What of it?”

You shrug, not looking to start a confrontation. “I’m glad that everything is cleared up. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be right on my way if you just move a bit,” you say pleasantly. Fifth period is almost over and you just want to spend the last few minutes of it in relative peace. 

Meenah seems to have other plans. “I seen you talkin’ to Megido,” she says conversationally. 

You hunch around the books in your arms but don’t answer. You’re hoping if the silence stalls long enough Meenah will give up and leave you alone. Haven’t you had enough trouble for one day? 

Meenah doesn’t move an inch, just keeps staring down at you with suspicious eyes, like you owe her an answer. She advances on you when you pry the door open a few inches and you react instinctively, scrunching your eyes shut and shoving her with as much force as you can manage. When you open your eyes she’s standing directly in front of you, so close that you’re sharing the same air. 

“We got a problem, Crocker?” she asks, and finally the straw breaks the camel’s back.

You start crying despite yourself, fogging up your glasses with shallow breathing. You know you can’t take on a troll in a fight, much less one of the higher blood castes. The fingers fisted in your shirt loosen when you sniffle. 

“Damn Crocker, you’re a turtle disaster,” Meenah says, pulling you into a hug. 

The next fifteen minutes is the most awkward and confusing block of time that you’ve ever spent in a bathroom, short of putting in your first tampon. Meenah’s disposition changes drastically with your tears, and she transforms from a towering bully into a coddling older sister in mere seconds. She pets your hair and strokes your back, and it should be way more awkward than it is but it isn’t. You curl into her as she soothes you, grateful to finally have someone there, lending you their shoulder and wiping away your tears, for once. 

The soothing motions progress until Meenah is caressing your face, stroking your cheeks with soft thumb pads and patting you lightly. That’s a little bit weird, but you convince yourself that it’s okay, that it’s just a weird troll thing, and that line of thought seems acceptable up until Meenah nuzzles her face in the juncture of your throat. You pull away with red rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks.

“Um,” you say. 

Meenah smiles and invades your personal space again, sliding her hands down your waist as you try not to flinch. “I’m not a lesbian,” you say, because this is awkward and you aren’t sure what’s happening and because it’s true.

Meenah slips her hand into your back pocket but doesn’t squeeze or grope, just leaves a sheet of folded paper pressed against your buttocks. 

“Me neither,” she says with a smirk. 

You spend the entire walk home trying to make sense of your life. Your heart hasn’t returned to it’s normal pace since the incident in the bathroom, and you aren’t sure what to make of it. You’re certain you aren’t a lesbian for two reasons. Firstly, because you’re attracted to thick manly calves and hairy legs, and secondly, because Roxy convinced you to make out with her last year, and as good a kisser as she is you never once wanted to repeat the process. 

There’s no denying that you felt something when Meenah wrapped her arms around you, like a heavy weight was being lifted from your chest at last. You stare down at the note in your trembling fingertips, dodging the cracks in the pavement as you walk. You trace the bubbly handwriting with your eyes, debating.

cutthroatCrayfish

You crush the paper in your hands and shove it into your pocket. It’s better to forget about the entire thing. You aren’t a lesbian, and though you may not know much about trolls you know how they work, and you aren’t interested in accidentally leading someone on. 

Much to your chagrin you arrive home with a near full tin of cupcakes. You leave the container open on your bed sheets and rustle around the room for your laptop. Pesterchum logs you in automatically, and you are immediately greeted with barrage of messages from an unknown user. 

\-- undyingUmbrage [uu] began jeering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \--  


uu: JANE HUMAN. I THINK WHAT EXPERIENCED EARLIER. WAS.  
uu: A DIFFERENCE IN WHAT YOu CALL “CuLTuRE.”  
GG: Is that so?  
uu: YES IT IS. SO VERY. SO.  
GG: Well then, what is it you want?  
uu: FIRST I WANT TO.  
uu: DuE THE THING WHICH. INSINuATES MuCH REGRET.  
GG: Are you telling me that you’re trying to apologize?  
uu: YES. LET’S GO WITH THAT.  
uu: WHEN I CALLED YOu A HEFTY SPOTTED HOOFBEAST. WHAT I MEAN TO SAY IS.  
GG: Excuse me? I don’t recall any messages insinuating such a thing!

Brow furrowed, you reach for your cellphone and turn it on. It feels like an eternity, but eventually the screen loads.

15 New Texts.

Scowling, you navigate to your inbox, and find fifteen messages waiting for you. They’re all from your mystery bully, and as you read on they become increasingly sexual and inappropriate. 

You decide to stop reading before your burst into tears. The words shouldn’t hurt as much as they do, but you’re halfway through your second cupcake already and the last thing you want to do is start crying all over it like some fat, slovenly mess. You return to the keyboard with rage twisting in your gut. 

  
\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] began pestering undyingUmbrage [uu]\--  


GG: Listen up mister, and listen good! Because I WILL NOT be repeating myself!  
GG: You are a complete jerk! If this has anything to do with Roxy, you’ll be sorry!  
uu: ROXY? DO YOu MEAN THE SMALL MOuNDED SKELETAL BITCH?  
uu: IS THIS THE HuMAN EMOTION CALLED “ENVY”?  
uu: I ASSuRE YOu. HER PITIFuL FLESH BuMPS HAVE NOTHING ON YOuR.  
uu: PLuMP PROPORTIONS.  
GG: Excuse me?  
uu: I AM ONLY SAYING THAT MY TASTE PREFERS.  
uu: A BuXOM SHREW. ONE WITH THE BuLGING INFLATION OF A CORPuLENT BEAuTY.  
GG: Corpulent?  
uu: uNLIKE YOuR HORIZONTALLY CHALLENGED FRIEND.  
uu: I ENJOY A BITCH THAT TROMPS AROuND. CAuSING THE EARTH TO TREMBLE WITH HER AMPLE BRAWN.  
uu: IT IS MORE GOOD. MORE EXCITING.  
uu: WHEN THE FEMALE’S RuMP HAS AN ATTRIBuTE OF WIDENESS. IN EXCESS.  
uu: EACH MEGALITHIC FOOTSTEP. INCITES THE MOST.  
uu: *OBSCENE* JIGGLING OF THE FLESH.  
GG: SHUT UP!  
GG: I AM NONE OF THOSE THINGS!  
uu: CEASE YOuR IRRELEVANCY.  
uu: I AM TRYING TO PAY A COMPLIMENT TO YOuR FACTuAL AND UNAVOIDABLE GIRTH. WHICH I SO DESIRE IN A BITCH.  
uu: I BET YOu ARE STuFFING YOUR MOuTH HOLE. THIS VERY MOMENT.  
uu: TO FuRTHER INCREASE THE SIZE. WHICH I ENJOY GREATLY.  
uu: JANE BITCH. DESCRIBE TO ME THAT WHICH YOu ARE EATING.  
GG: I AM NOT FAT!  
uu: WAIT!

  
\--gutsyGumshoe [GG] has blocked undyingUmbrage [uu] \--  


Tears pricking your eyes, you decide that you’ve had enough of that dodgy duffer You’re certain he’s never even seen you before, that he’s probably just some lucky barmpot that managed to hit a nerve. Not to say that his bullying methods were effective, because they certainly weren’t! You wipe at your eyes and remove the wrapping from a third cupcake. It isn’t like you don’t deserve one after what that insensitive prick put you through.

  
\-- golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \--  


GT: Jane! Forgive my botherations but I think we need to reconvene!  
GG: You think? Whatever would make you think that?  
GT: Well theres been some rather strange developments in my life that id very much like to talk with you about.  
GT: My brain’s been so bodgy lately and ive tried to talk to dirk but you know how it is with him!  
GT: Half the time i swear he doesnt know christmas from bourke street!  
GT: Anyway ive been flat out lizard drinking over something.  
GT: Its sort of a delicate subject.  
GT: A bit of an emotional tizzy if you will.  
GT: I tried talking to lalonde but that was about as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike!  
GT: Hogswallop!  
GT: I didnt mean to yabber at the pie hole and give you an earbeating.  
GT: But Im just starting to think youre the right lady for the job!  
GT: If you know what I mean.  
GT: Jane?  
GG: You know what makes me think we ought to “reconvene”?  
GT: Er. Not really?  
GG: The ELEVEN times I called you this week.  
GT: Holy dooley!  
GT: You seem a little cheesed off at the moment.  
GT: Is now a bad time?

You find yourself just barely resisting the urge to bang your forehead against the keyboard. You fail to resist the urge. 

GG: asjsghkdjfghiuhgkgjfdkjgdepr0  
GT: Jane? Are you alright?  
GG: sdjfhskjghoerut843thwetub,t  
GG: Sorry. I don’t mean to take out all this misplaced anger on you.  
GT: Misplaced anger?  
GG: I’ve just been dealing with a heck of a lot myself!  
GT: Well anyroad do you think you’re up for helping out a fellow in need of some feminine guidance?  
GG: Is that some sort of...  
GG: Salacious proposition? I’m trying to read between the lines here.

You tell your heart to just go ahead and slow the heck down! If there’s one thing you’ve learned about being friends with Jake English, it’s that you’ve got to manage your expectations. Or rather, try not to have any at all. 

GT: Of course not!  
GT: Dont read between any lines!!  
GT: Im not so much of an unruly beast as to suggest we have dive right into the hanky panky!  
GG: ...  
GT: What Im thinking of is a bit less...lascivious.  
GG: Jake!!! Just say it already!  
GT: I was thinking that maybe I could steal a kiss.  
GG: A kiss?  
GT: A kiss.  
GT: You know a snog.  
GT: Nothing too risque!  
GT: Just the sort of thing a gentleman like myself ought to be getting up too with a fine dame his own age.  
GT: Dont you think?  
GG: Well.  
GG: I suppose you’re right. A kiss with you might be something worth trying.  
GT: Thats the spirit Janey! I had a feeling youd come around.  
GT: Youre really bottling your bloods worth.  
GT: I knew there was a reason youre one of my best chums! Im over here grinning like a shot fox!  
GT: Now that I think about it this is a heaps better situation than with Roxy.  
GG: You kissed Roxy?  
GT: Of course not!  
GT: *loosens collar*  
GT: But I may have asked her as well.  
GT: I had to exhaust all of my options before burdening one of my best mates with a doozie of a conundrum like this.  
GG: Conundrum?  
GT: Well my sexuality has just been so flipsy flopsy.  
GT: You know how it is! Youth, puberty, hormones and all that!  
GG: Of course!  
GT: I knew youd understand!  
GT: Want to come by tomorrow after school?  
GT: Im not fond of the thought of your dad catching us and and chasing me out of the window to defend his daughters purity.  
GG: You’re back home?  
GT: Right o! Ive been home for three days now hobbling around on crutches like an invalid.  
GT: I wanted to stay longer and hang out with my new chum but the doctors said it was a clean break.  
GT: Figures!  
GG: You made a new friend?  
GT: Indeed!  
GT: His name is Caliborn. Hes a bit of a wiley bloke but hes hilarious. Ill tell you all about him tomorrow but Ive got to jet for now.  
GT: Thanks again Janey youre the best!

  
\-- golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \--  


You shove your laptop away and seethe. Rage boils in your chest and you struggle with the desire to tear out your hair. Or break something. Or both. Somehow you can’t believe how much of a complete and utter tool Jake English is. What you find even more unbelievable is that you just agreed to snog the self centered prick! You don’t mean to, you didn’t choose to, but you like him. In a sort of non-platonic, romantic way. Of course you want to kiss him! How could you say no?

Belatedly, you realize you feel sick. And not just emotionally, physically. Your stomach feels knotted and upturned, and your palms are sweaty. In that moment you hate everything and you’ve got no way of expressing it, so you flip the tin of cupcakes off the edge of your bed and regret it immediately. You peer down at the icing squished into your carpet and feel like a fool.

You know you ought to clean them up off the floor and fix up the kitchen before your Dad gets home. At the very least, you should pull out your books and get started on your homework. None of those things sound the least bit appealing. Everything around you feels like a giant obligation. What about your obligations? When do you get to do what you want to do? You’re starting to feel like that time may never come.

  
\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG] \--  


TG: ALART ALART ARLART AL*ERT AL*ART!!!!!  
TG: hugely important correspondence  
TG: im serious this time like super serious  
TG: on a scale of one to serious i am like sirius black over here  
TG: like just broke out of azkaban thats how serious i am right now  
TG: beep beep  
TG: paging doctor crocker  
TG: totes having a legit emotional crisis over here  
GG: : ?  
GG: Are you drinking already?  
TG: of coarse not  
TG: *of course knot  
GG: Hm. I’m willing to bet the alcohol content in your blood would prove otherwise.  
TG: oh no  
TG: am i in trouble ociffer crocker  
TG: i swear to drunk im not god  
TG: are u gonna make me blow into the breathilizer and put me under arrest  
GG: So what’s all this urgent news about?  
TG: i should be asking u the same question!  
GG: : ?  
TG: how was school  
TG: has it blown ever yet or is everyone still talking about the great lalonde boobies  
GG: The latter, unfortunately.  
TG: unfortunately  
TG: more like theyre the fortunate ones  
TG: getting to see my goodies without even having to pay  
GG: :\  
TG: cheer up crocker it was just one tit pic  
GG: As in one singular, ahem, breast?  
TG: you would know  
GG: I didn’t look at the picture!  
TG: yeah it was totes too hot to handle  
TG: you wouldve had to get out them bright blue oven mits just so you dont get burned  
GG: Hoo hoo hoo. Very funny.  
TG: but yeah just one singular tit  
GG: Er, any particular reason?  
TG: i was kind of definitely drunk off my ass  
TG: is that a certifiable reason dr crocker  
GG: I suppose so. I hope this isn’t too out of line, but I thought you were done with alcohol.  
TG: well i was  
TG: but then my mom left the key to the liquor cabinet right on the countertop  
TG: if thats not a sign from the heavens or w/e then i dont know what is  
GG: That’s not a good reason at all!  
TG: this may sound crazy but sometimes i swear my mom leaves the stuff around on purpose  
GG: I’m sure that’s not the case! Your mother loves you.  
TG: maybe  
GG: Definitely!  
GG: By the way, do you know a girl from school by the name of Meenah?  
TG: i think  
TG: why  
TG: she talkin shit  
TG: do i need to show up to bust a cap or what  
GG: No, nothing like that! I just had a rather strange experience with her today in the bathroom...  
TG: woah  
TG: damn crocker all this time u been playing for the other time  
TG: *team  
TG: what am i not good enough im like chopped liver over here  
GG: It wasn’t like that! At least, I don’t think it was...  
TG: *gasp*  
TG: well what happened gimme the details  
TG: shoot  
TG: my mom is home  
TG: brb

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] is now an idle chum --

Of course. You know it isn’t on purpose, but it seems as if every time something occurs in your life that needs discussing, suddenly all of your friends are nowhere to be found. You want to chalk it up to bad luck, but you can only roll a losing hand so many times before you start thinking that it might be time to quit the game. 

You remove the crumpled sheet of paper from your hands and set your jaw. The username is a bit intimidating, but you should at least message her to work this all out. Right? You’re tempted to wait for Roxy to return before making any final decisions, but you have no idea when that may be. Besides, you at least owe the fish troll an explanation? Even you should be able to manage that without botching things up too terribly.

\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] began pestering cutthroatCrayfish [CC] \--

GG: Hello?  
CC: ay girl  
GG: Um.  
CC: water you doin  
GG: I just thought we might talk about something.  
CC: u got it girl lets get our jam on  
CC: you should write this down somewhere its like a big deal our first jam an all  
GG: Er.  
CC: damn you gonna play all koi and shit  
CC: make me axe you what your problem is and pull it out a you  
CC: alright fine ill take the bait but only cause youre like the cutest quadrant mate ive ever had  
CC: whats wrong  
GG: Whale I just thought we should talk about the incident in the bathroom.  
CC: did you just fish pun at me  
CC: you did 

Okay, so maybe you do know what Meenah’s referring to. It isn’t your fault that the fish puns are so gosh darned catchy! You wipe your sweaty palms on your pants and think of the perfect response. 

GG: I reely don’t know what you’re referring to.

You may or may not have just accidentally agreed to enter into a relationship with a female sea troll that you barely know. This doesn’t make sense for a variety of reasons, but you aren’t too keen on getting out your hat and pipe to investigate any of them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been informed that Eridan is OOC. I agree, but I probably won't go back for edits.

Your name is...your name is...uhm, well. You’re sure that any minute now you’ll remember that next part, just as soon as you finish topping off this last bottle of Smirnoff strawberry vodka. When you open your mouth and chug down the rest, you distinctly tell yourself that you won’t have anything else to drink after this, you promise. You’re not a very good liar and even you don’t believe yourself, so you reach underneath your bed for some of the shitty emergency beer you store there anyway. Your mother’s locked liquor cabinet definitely constitutes as an emergency. Or a dare. Or both.

“Down the snatch,” you say, before bursting into an uncontrollable giggling fit at your own mistake. “I mean hatch,” you correct yourself, speech slurring. You wrap your mouth around the lip of the bottle and tip it back. 

With vodka and cheap beer brewing in your stomach, you are officially prepared to get your write on til the break of dawn. You are currently halfway finished an epic story of love, majyyks, and homoeroticism. You stumble into your computer chair and pull up in front of your desktop with the full intention of writing Harry Potter porn that would make your mother proud. Something on the screen blinks at you, and you squint your eyes before blinking lazily back. You realize belatedly that you’re flirtatiously winking and wonking at your Pesterchum notification, and that’s pretty pathetic, even for you.

\-- caligulasAquarium [CA] began trolling tipsyGnostalgic [TG] \--

CA: rox  
CA: hey  
TG: hey htere  
CA: i knoww youre a human an all but at least have some quadrant respect  
CA: instead a answerin your moirail half pissed from them human soporifics  
TG: hwat  
TG: *wat  
TG: *wwat  
TG: lol  
TG: i respect all the quadrants  
TG: literally all of them  
CA: ok ok please dont start referencin memes again  
TG: fiiiiine  
TG: so whats todays issue mister grumpy gills  
CA: my gills are in a perfectly fine mood thank you very much  
TG: of course they r  
TG: so then wahts the problem-o  
TG: ?  
CA: nothin god  
CA: cant a guy just glub at his shitty human moirail for no reason  
TG: *cod  
CA: i told before just because im a sea troll dont mean i need to use fish puns all the damn time  
CA: that is some seriously racist shit rox  
CA: its outdated and frankly just unclassy  
TG: i think its p cute  
CA: thats cause you got no fuckin sense a proprietary  
TG: true  
TG: lol  
TG: so i guess u want me to 2 do the hting where i keep asking u wats wrong and you keep tellnig me nothing  
TG: until finally at least u give in and tell me ur BIG SECRET  
CA: wwell yea that wwas kinda the general plan  
CA: but its kinda ruined noww that you just put it all out in the open like that  
TG: heehee  
TG: i mean  
TG: *sorry  
TG: so tell me the big secret  
CA: no wway  
TG: oh come on we can pretend i didnt say that thing if u want  
CA: no its ruined  
TG: cmon lil fishy its not that ruined  
TG: i am still so overcome w/ anxiety over the secret you are currently lording over my head  
TG: i am on the edge of my seat right now htat is how badly i NEED 2 KNOW  
TG: pls tell me ur serket  
TG: *secret  
TG: if u dont tell me i might die  
TG: pls tell me all the secret  
CA: oh my god  
CA: shut up stop typin ok  
CA: youre just lucky im feelin merciful today  
CA: ok the big reveal is that i may or may not  
TG: .........  
CA: be experiencin feelings of the pitch nature  
TG: omc  
CA: wwhat the hell is omc  
TG: oh my cod  
TG: it also means original male characters in fics  
CA: are you seriously tryin to change the subject to that shitty harry potter wwizard porn you wwrite  
CA: im sorta in the middle of a jam right here  
TG: calm ur fins  
CA: i already told you my fins are FINE  
TG: ok so serious bizness time  
TG: who is the lucky trollop  
TG: *troll  
TG: or person/human/cherub i guess  
TG: im not here 2 judge  
CA: is that really important  
CA: all you need to knoww is that hes a total asshole and he gets under my skin like no one i ever met  
TG: omg  
TG: its sollux  
TG: r u going 2 tell him??  
CA: wwho said anything about that pissblood fuckup  
TG: u gays are gonna be so cute together  
TG: *guys  
TG: lol  
CA: that wwas totally on purpose  
TG: what no way  
TG: prove it  
TG: sooooo  
TG: so why dont u wanna tell him  
CA: its kinda complicated  
TG: im very smart dont worry i will understand  
CA: okay wwell dont jump dowwn my gullet if you miss some a the cultural nuances or wwhatever  
CA: you knoww how its been ever since the thing wwith my genetic ancestor  
TG: u mean cronus  
CA: yea wwell ever since he died trolls have been climbin outta the wwoodwwork wwith pity  
TG: that sounds great?  
CA: not really i dont wwanna be pitied for a shitty reason like that  
CA: i wwanna be pitied by owwn merit  
CA: i wanna be pitied cause im truly pathetic not  
TG: right not cause ur anceestor kicked the bucket  
CA: eww  
TG: so ur afraid sollux wont return ur feelins cause youre such a pitiful embarassment?  
CA: wwell yeah  
CA: also ouch  
TG: omg h/o  
TG: sollux is pestering me right now  
CA: DONT SAY ANYFIN!  
CA: IM BEIN SERIOUS ROX!  
TG: hush  
TG: calm ur fins  
CA: my fins are glubbin FINE  
TG: brb

You minimize the writing document and tap your chin thoughtfully. You are most definitely on your way to being The Best Moirail 5Evar, and all you need to do to secure your winning position is play a bit of matchmaker. Actually, that’s just another thing you’re great at. You’ve been a regular old shidduch ever since the second grade when you wrote matching love notes in red crayon to two especially lonely classmates. You’ve matched countless couples since then, and despite the repetition you find yourself bubbling with excitement over each new opportunity that presents itself.

There’s something inspiring about bringing two people together in love--or in this case, hate--and it only helps that you never feel an iota of envy about it. You might be alone, but you definitely aren’t lonely. Between old school video games, code tinkering, and alcohol, it’s almost as if you aren’t single at all. At least, that’s what to yourself every time someone asks you about your dating life.

You take another swig of beer and try to focus more on the matter at hand. Eridan and Sollux are two years older than you and attended to the same mixed-species high school, but most days they come off like a couple of immature wrigglers. You chalk it up to males being slow to mature regardless of species.

Hmm. HMMMM. You thoughtfully tap your chin a few more times but an epiphany does not befall your brain. Well, you’ve never been especially good at planning things out.

  
\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering twinArmageddons [TA] \--  


TG: soulux  
TG: solelux  
TG: hellooooooo  
TG: ok well  
TG: i guess u arent theree  
TG: i just want to let u know htat i showed that code u sent me to my moirail  
TG: he says it sucks major hagrid balls  
TA: are you fiinii2hed butcheriing my name?  
TA: and there2 nothiing wrong wiith my code.  
TG: oh so you are there  
TA: no iim not.  
TA: you are currently communiicating with my half-dead 2oul.  
TG: oh good speakin of dead stuff  
TA: ii dont liike where thii2 ii2 goiing.  
TG: SHHH  
TG: speakign of dead stuff u know eridan right  
TA: holy 2hiit diid he diie?  
TG: would u care if i said yes?  
TA: ii dont know but iid be pretty fuckiing di2turbed.  
TG: close enough  
TA: so ii2 he dead or not?  
TG: nope way!  
TG: but you know how his big brother troll died right  
TA: yeah ii heard about it from KK.  
TG: ok well apparently everyone is all flocking to board eridans pity train  
TG: choochoo  
TG: all aboard the s.s. octodick  
TA: why 2hould ii care about any of thi2?  
TG: SHHH lemme finish  
TG: so with his trollbro dead and all wouldnt this b the perf time forrrr....  
TG *drumroll*  
TA: 2eriiou2ly?  
TG: **drumroll!!**  
TG: a pitch attack!  
TA: youve got to be 2hiitiing me.  
TA: did ED put you up thi2?  
TG: nooope  
TA: iim leaving now.  
TG: no  
TG: wait  
TG: juts here me out  
TA: 2iigh.  
TA: only becau2e ii need a break from KK’s whiiny moiiraiil bull2hiit parade.  
TG: ok so dont u just htink htath  
TG: *think hatat  
TG: ok but isnt eridan like  
TG: um  
TG: super annoying  
TG: you know how he always do the thing with his fins  
TA: thii2 2ound2 per2onal.  
TG: well his fins do this thing where they like  
TG: flutter yea u could say they flutter  
TG: isnt that totes horrible  
TA: ii gue22?  
TA: ii2 thi2 2upposed to be 2ome kiind of me22ed up pale come on?  
TG: waaaaaat  
TA: cau2e iit kiind of 2eem2 liike youre glubbin two me about your moiiraiil  
TA: and it2 kiind of gro22.  
TG: ugh noooooo :(  
TG: i just think u an eridan would make an a+ couple  
TA: fiine.  
TG: fiine?  
TA: yeah fiine.  
TA: ill take fii2hdiick on a date.  
TG: yes!!  
TA: now can you fiix the code ii 2ent you or what?  
TG: way ahead of u 4 horns  
TA: four horn2?  
TA: wow really creatiive.  
TA: you mu2t have been up all niight wrackiing your pan for that one.  
TA: hello?  
TA: RX?

  
\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] is now and idle chum --

You ignore the twinge in your gut and the thought the follows it--that maybe you kinda liked sollux--and proceed to clean your room.You spend the next few minutes bumbling around your room and trying to clear the immediate presence of alcohol. You can hear the car pull into the driveway outside, and you’re certain one or both of your moms is going to be jingling her keys as she opens the front door any minute now. Not that it matters.

You’re almost absotively posolutely sure your mothers couldn’t give any less of a collective shit about you if they tried. You’d turn the thought into a colorful metaphor involving feces, enemas, and bowel movements, but you’re kind of really fucking upset right now and that’s more of Dirk’s territory anyway. Thinking of Dirk only upsets you further, and you proceed to not-cry all over your shirt as you stuff empty bottles beneath your bed.

Dirk was your best friend before you ever held any inkling of flushed feelings towards him, and you aren’t really sure how your moirallegiance with Eridan can work around that. You don’t understand why you can’t have both a moirail and a best friend, and you also don’t understand why everyone you ever end up liking is completely, definitely, irrevocably, totes off-limits.

By the time you drag yourself into the bathroom with your 3DS your moms have already left. In their wake lie a series of passive aggressive sticky notes written in painstakingly perfect handwriting. There’s even a few in the bathroom, scattered across the mirror and the cabinet, one stuck haphazardly to the roll of toilet paper. You ignore them in favor of turning on the shower, and you proceed to play animal crossing on the toilet while the bathroom steadily fills with steam. Of course, you can’t even allow a fictional raccoon furry to rip you off before your alone time is interrupted by someone pestering you. It’s your own fault for hacking into the 3DS mainframe and installing an open-source version of Pesterchum, you figure.

  
\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] \--  


GG: Hello Roxy!  
TG: heyyo jcrocs  
TG: *jcrocks  
GG: I noticed you were absent from school again today. :\  
TG: haha dont worry about it crocker  
TG: the boys will be back in town b4 u know it  
TG: my milkshake brings all the boys 2 the yard remember?  
GG: I sure hope so!  
GG: School is awfully lonely without you around.  
TG: aw ur a sweaty  
TG: whoopts *sweety  
TG: besides im sure ur fine im givin u plenty of time so that you can  
TG: GER UR DIAMON ON  
TG: *GET  
GG: About that...I don’t know if this is such a good idea.  
TG: pfft no way  
TG: interspecies romance is always a bad idea  
TG: lol  
GG: :(  
TG: im KIDDIGN geeze  
TG: i think its actually kinda fun  
GG: More like completely confusing!  
GG: I’ve been reading wikipedia articles on moirallegiance all week, but it just doesn’t make much sense to me!  
TG: ur not supposed to read about moirallagience  
TG: youre supposed 2 FEEL IT  
TG: do u feel it in your heart crock???  
GG: I...I’m not sure.  
TG: are there sum great big diamonds up and rollin around in there  
TG: bustin up ur lungs and stuff w/ their need to be released  
GG: Maybe?  
GG: My lungs feel perfectly normal as far as I can tell.  
TG: ok let me ask u a few questions  
TG: u answer them truthfully and i will give u the diagnosis  
TG: ok???  
GG: Yes, ok!  
TG: ok so do u feel the overwhelmin need 2 help her w/ her problems and life  
GG: Er. Not particularly?  
TG: ok  
TG: how about do u feel the need to like calm her down when she is legit flippin her shit?  
GG: Oh, yes!  
GG: She can definitely be a little short tempered.  
TG: ok right  
TG: do u also want to be sort of get all up in her grill  
GG: Um?  
TG: u kno like sitting next to her whenever u can  
GG: I suppose so.  
TG: ok and this is the super big question  
TG: do you think abuot putting ur palm all up on herr cheek real tender like and doing the strokey loki??  
GG: The strokey loki???  
TG: PAPPING  
GG: Oh. I read about that. I guess it’s something I’ve been considering.  
GG: It only seems fair since she does it to me all the time.  
GG: Though it is a bit awkward.  
TG: omg u are the papee??  
TG: crocker i am shocked at ur lascivious displays of behavior  
TG: what could you possibly get so riled up about that youre in need of a papping?  
GG: : X  
TG: spill!  
GG: Okay, I may have overreacted when a certain East Beforan exchange student said something inappropriate to me.  
TG: omg jane you got papped down 4 yellin at megido you go girl  
TG: 4 for jane crocker  
GG: Goodness, I feel so embarrassed for some reason. Like a regular fish out of water.  
TG: dont tell me youve already progressed to using fishpuns  
TG: omg that so cueteeeeeeeeee  
GG: Okay, but enough about me!  
GG: When are you coming back to school missy?  
TG: eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee  
GG: Roxy, are you ok?

  
\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] is now and idle chum --  


Okay, wow. That was most definitely not the best way to end that conversation. It’s not like you’re purposely trying to draw attention to yourself, but your brain feels like a bowl of microwaved Progresso soup: chunky, overpriced, and unevenly heated. Your body feels like the soft, overcooked noodles, flaccid and unwilling to cooperate with your barely functioning brain. 

You should definitely get up and turn off the shower but you can’t seem to tear your cheek away from the damp bathroom floor. Your stomach churns and does bellyflops though your body remains perfectly still, outstretched face down on the bathroom tile with your pajama pants and underwear still bunched around your ankles. 

“Shit,” you manage to mumble, drool collecting beneath your open mouth. You don’t feel two hot right now. 

As consciousness begins to slip away a small yellow square catches your eye. You stare at the strange symbols on the yellow sheet of paper for several moments before your brain can process them as words. The thoroughly concise, legible handwriting is just a few shades darker than your own. When the words finally sink in frustration gurgles in your upturned gut. 

Roxy, my dear daughter. If you are currently reading this note you have just hit rock bottom. Please let me help you up. 

The note fades away with the rest of the room when your eyes slip shut to blink back tears, and your sleep is uncomfortable and dreamless.

You wake up two and half hours later at five thirty in the evening, mostly sober and significantly less nauseous. You can hear your cellphone ringing through the wall, shrill and loud. You take a deep breath and try to push yourself up, only to just barely lift your head instead. Frigglish is sitting at your feet, batting playfully at your toes. When your head hits the floor as you drop back to the ground you see Crookshanks prowling along the edge of the bathtub, water still pattering painfully loud against the porcelain.

“Frigglish,” you complain, and you don’t realize it’s a poor word choice until it sounds like something messy and mangled with one syllable and too many consonants. You swallow and with the flood of air you feel a bit more in control. “Fetch my phone,” you finish. Frigglish blinks back lazily at you before opening his mouth in a wide yawn. You frown. “Accio cell phone,” you try. It’s just as effective as your previous command.

At last your chest expands and you push yourself up, trying hard not to fall back from the ensuing dizzy spell. The room wavers a little in your vision, ceiling light threatening to topple backward before your equilibrium stabilizes. You breathe in and the room steadies. The nausea returns and your head feels split in two but you’re otherwise fine. 

It takes you more than six minutes to cross the small hallway between your bathroom and bedroom, and your cushy bed is a godsend when you flop back against it. Salem startles from the bedspread when you stretch out, tossing a testy look over his furred shoulder and flicking his tail. When you can open your eyes without being sick the first thing you do is reach for your cellphone. 

  


  


  
  


You almost entertain the idea that like your mother, Dirk possesses some unexplainable sixth sense. You imagine he’d be quite gifted in divination, despite the fact that he’d think the subject itself was a hack. You should probably stop imagining your friends in alternate universe Hogwarts and actually respond to them.

You reach for the laptop beneath your pillow with excruciating slowness, and signing onto Pesterchum under invisible is no small feat. Your head is still throbbing but at least you don’t feel like you’re going to vomit up three bowls of Fruity Pebbles. Your brain is just getting around to wondering if this is such a good idea when Dirk pesters you, like he can sense your very presence in front of the computer screen. 

  
\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] \--  


TT: Six months is long enough, right?  
TG: i was jsut bullshitting myslef the same questoin  
TT: Jesus christ on a candlestick.  
TT: How much did you drink?  
TG: wow  
TG: ive missed yuo too  
TT: My bad.  
TG: oh shut up u have ffelgnis too  
TG: you pobs missed me so much u were cryging  
TG: tell me how much u cried dirky  
TT: A thousand tears.  
TT: Nearly cried a river and drowned the whole world.  
TG: shhh i know  
TT: So.  
TG: spppppp  
TG: *soooo  
TT: This doesn’t have to be awkward, right?  
TG: not unless u want it 2 be  
TT: Okay. If I tell you a secret, will you promise not to laugh yourself into a coma?  
TG: hmmMM  
TG: Hmmmmmmm  
TG: ok  
TT: I think I’m being haunted.  
TG: wtf  
TT: Yeah.  
TT: There’s two of them, both male.  
TG: r they hot 4 you???  
TT: Not that I’m aware of.  
TG: damn  
TT: Not every haunting can be the perfect paranormal romance of your young adult books.  
TG: i know but still  
TG: are they hotties w/ body karkates  
TT: Kind of?  
TT: The sea-troll is kind of handsome, if you’re into that type of thing.  
TG: sea trolls??  
TG: i am def in to that type of thing  
TT: You are?  
TG: well yea my moirail is kinda a sea troll so duh

There’s a long stretch of silence where neither of you type anything. You think that maybe what you said was insensitive, but it’s the truth, and there’s no other way around it. Dirk was your best friend before you met Eridan, and that still hasn’t changed. What you have with Eridan is nothing like you and Dirk have ever been. Still, you can’t shake the undeniable urge to pap Eridan’s cute little cheek when his fins flitter with anger.

With six months between you and Dirk, some things were bound to change, but you still pretty much feel like some weird adulterous best friend skank. You’re excited to hear from Dirk, you really are, but sometimes you wish your friendship could return to the way it used to be, pre-puberty emotional mishmash. There’s a wall in your friendship with Dirk now, and the worst part about it is that you desperately want to tell him about your problems. You want to hear his sarcastic quips about Sollux’s speech impediment, want to hear him mock you for getting involved with trolls just like your mother.

Instead you both pretend the last line of dialogue didn’t happen.

TT: The weirdest part is that they keep telling me they’re an angel and a demon.  
TG: omg  
TT: I find it hard to believe them.  
TG: but why would they lie?  
TT: That’s what I haven’t figured out yet.  
TG: maybe we should get inspectator crocker in on the case  
TG: i am squinting my eyes very very suspiciousl juyst so u kno  
TG: *suspiciously  
TT: Think Jane can take the case?  
TG: im sure she can squeeze us in after a jam w/ her monorail  
TG: whether or not she beliebe us that is the real questioin  
TT: Crocker has a moirail?  
TT: As in, with a troll?  
TG: yus!  
TG: a sea troll  
TT: Are you sure we’re talking about the same girl?  
TT: Jane Crocker. The Jane Crocker.  
TG: yes  
TT: The same Jane Crocker that pissed herself the first time she saw a troll?  
TG: yes!!  
TG: htats the one!  
TT: Seems like I’ve been missing a lot.  
TG: u dont have 2 be  
TT: I can’t just decide to leave the hospital.  
TG: well 4 starters u could talk to us more  
TT: It wouldn’t be the same.  
TG: soooo  
TG: so its not exactly the cake u want so u dont want a cake at all?  
TG: im sorry dirk but a cake is a cake u cant always pick the flavor  
TG: sometimes u gotta just eat that cake like its ur favorite kidn  
TG: store bought frosting roses an all  
TT: Roxy, you know how I feel about frosting flowers.  
TG: i know ;)  
TG: sometimes u just gotta suck it  
TT: ?  
TG: *suck it up  
TG: lol  
TT: Well I’ve definitely had enough Jake-flavored cake to last me a little while.  
TG: whao  
TG: ahow  
TG: *whoa!!!  
TG: did u taste his jake flavor kisses  
TT: Hardly.  
TT: He was in the hospital for a few days with a broken leg.  
TG: *gaps*  
TG: **gasps**  
TT: How did you not know that? Did one of you transfer schools in the past six months?  
TG: um  
TG: no but i havent really been in school much since well u know  
TT: ?  
TG: u know!  
TT: ???  
TG: the tit pic  
TG: the titular picular  
TG: text a la breast  
TT: Okay, I get it.  
TG: sorry am i embarrassing ur delicate gay sensibilities w/ my heteroboobiness  
TT: You wish.  
TG: ahahaha maybe ;)  
TT: Still, we’re straying from the subject.  
TG: wats the subject mister strider  
TT: School. And you know, you not attending.  
TG: aw  
TG: i was hoping u would let that 1 go  
TT: You can’t just drop out of high school because of one teenaged fuckup.  
TG: sure i can  
TT: Roxy, I’m being serious.  
TG: ugh  
TG: i hate it when ur serious  
TG: no wait  
TG: ok ill do it but only if u do me a thing back  
TT: What’s that?  
TG: i got a promposition  
TG: *propositionn  
TG: *deal  
TT: Let’s hear it then.  
TG: u let us come and visit  
TT: No way.  
TG: why not??  
TG: Jake visited u  
TT: That’s different.  
TG: different bc u want to kiss him?  
TT: No. Different because there was no way around it.  
TT: I look like trash. The last thing I need is visitors.  
TG: :(  
TG: :’(  
TT: How about we make a different deal.  
TT: You go to AA and you can come and visit.  
TG: what  
TG: wait a sec im the one w/ the leverage here remember  
TG: if you dont do what i want i wont go back to school  
TT: Yes, I’m sure your mothers are going to let their teenaged daughter become a dropout.  
TG: i htink ur thoroughly understimating their parental negligees  
TG: *negligence  
TT: Am I really?  
TT: Look, you go to AA, go back to school, and then I’ll tell you where I’m staying.  
TG: this is not a fair deal at all  
TG: unless  
TT: Wait.  
TG: unless you let me pick the game we play when i come 2 visit  
TT: Shit.  
TT: Fine.  
TG: deal  
TT: It’s going to be Pikmin isn’t it?  
TG: when is it not  
TG: Point.  
TT: Well I’ll let you go, you have to rest up for that eight pm alcoholics anonymous meeting.  
TG: wat  
TG: dirky no  
TG: no  
TT: It’s in the church right off the boulevard in front of our school.  
TT: You know the one.  
TG: not today  
TG: im two hungover  
TT: Don’t be late, or you’ll make a spectacle of yourself.

  
\-- timaeusTestified [TT] is now an idle chum --  


You are predictably late to the eight pm Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. Partly you are late because you spend a little too much time obsessively finicking with your hair, and partly because you get lost on the way to the church. When you swing the door open everyone turns to face you, Dirk’s right, you’re making a spectacle of yourself. You realize halfway into a confident stride forward that you probably aren’t supposed to like the attention.

Someone from the crowd motions to an empty chair and you sit down, feeling suddenly awkward and silly. You zone in and out a bit as people introduce themselves, and you don’t really catch a word of it until the person standing is a gangly troll with a mass of black hair and purple eyes. He’d be intimidating if you scared easy. Instead you just feel sorry for the guy. You can’t tell exactly what’s wrong with him but he won’t stop talking about how he realized he’d hit rock bottom when he woke up covered in faygo and cheese nips in an alleyway outside a local Pizzaria. Everyone hears him out for a few minutes anyway. 

“Your turn,” you realize someone is saying. “Your turn,” repeats the person beside you, louder. When you stand your throat feels dry and your tongue feels heavy. 

Your name is Roxxane Lalonde, and you are definitely an alcoholic.


	9. Chapter 9

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you have exactly sixteen days, four hours, eleven minutes, and thirteen million ninety-seven thousand five hundred and twenty seconds until you go into surgery. Not that you’re obsessively keeping track via a countdown application you couldn’t help yourself from creating. Unfortunately for you, Cronus and Kankri are shameless in their frenetic single-mindedness, and they spend their every waking moment reminding you of your impending doom, whether accidentally or on purpose. Cronus hovers presently beside your hospital bed, legs outstretched, arms folded in front of his chest. Kankri is a few paces behind him, legs crossed beneath his oversized red sweater as he peers invasively over your shoulder.

Cronus yawns before speaking. “Ay, you make up your mind yet or what?”

Kankri gasps dramatically from behind you, as if Cronus has just stepped on a kitten or committed some unspeakable crime against humanity. “Cronus, how many times do I have to tell you? A decision like this isn’t an easy one to make. The potential of Dirk’s entire afterlife hangs precariously in the balance!”

If you hear another word about your “precariously” dangling afterlife you swear to god you’re going to find the fountain of eternal youth just to spite them both and leave them disgracefully wandering Earth with the worst case of curiosity blue balls Heaven or Hell has ever seen. You’re not above being a spiritual cocktease to get a little peace and quiet on your way out. You’re about to launch into a lengthy dialogue about how Cronus and Kankri are clearly manipulative undead hallucinations with too much time on their hands and a penchant for pranking humans, when an ill-timed pesterchum notification distracts you. 

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling timaeusTestified [TT] \--

CG: HOLY LEANING TOWER OF FUCK.  
CG: MY LIFE CANNOT POSSIBLY GET ANY WORSE.  
TT: Shit broseidon.  
TT: Still no sign of your missing monorail?  
CG: WOW, THANKS FOR THE CULTURAL SENSITIVITY YOU PRETENTIOUS BITCHING BULGESUCK.  
CG: THIS IS KIND OF A SERIOUS SITUATION THAT I HAVE HERE.  
TT: Anyone ever tell you that you need to not flip the fuck out so much?  
CG: YES.  
CG: THAT IS EXACTLY THE JOB OF MY MISSING MOIRAIL YOU STUPID SHITHEAD.  
TT: I’m sure he’s fine.  
CG: OH, REALLY?  
CG: THAT’S A RELIEF.  
CG: MY BATSHITTING DOUCHEBAG OF AN ONLINE FRIEND SAYS MY MOIRAIL IS FINE.  
CG: CALL OFF THE FUCKING SEARCH PARTY, SEER PLUSHRUMP OVER HERE SAYS EVERYTHING IS COMPLETELY CHILL.  
CG: APPARENTLY HE KNOWS EVERYTHING THERE IS TO KNOW ABOUT MY ALMIGHTY NOOKHUMPING ASSWAD OF A MOIRAIL.  
CG: I’M SURE HE’S FINE, PLUSHRUMP SAYS.  
CG: NOT LITERALLY DEAD IN A FUCKING ALLEY SOMEWHERE, BLEEDING PURPLE BLOOD ALL OVER THE PLACE LIKE A MASSACRED JELLY SANDWICH.  
CG: OR EVEN WORSE, MAYBE HIS PAN’S FINALLY CRACKED AND HE’S LEFT TO BECOME SOME KIND OF ASS BACKWARDS RELIGIOUS MERCENARY, SPREADING THE WORD OF HIS FACE PAINTED CLOWN BRETHREN LIKE AN AIRBORNE DISEASE, GOING TO DOOR TO DOOR LIKE A GROUP OF CANNIBALISTIC JEHOVAH'S WITNESSES.  
TT: Now that’s a movie I’d like to see.  
CG: THIS ISN’T A FUCKING JOKE, IN CASE YOU MISSED THE MEMO.  
TT: I definitely didn’t miss the memo.  
TT: It was quite an entertaining read, and you have some colorful friends.  
CG: ‘COLORFUL’? THAT’S THE NICEST I’VE EVER HEARD ANYONE DESCRIBE THAT MOTLEY GROUP OF ASSBACKWARDS SHITHEADS SINCE GAMZEE CALLED THEM HIS RAINBOW MIRACLE BRIGADE.  
TT: Have you considered the fact that maybe he got picked up by the police?  
TT: He is a drug dealer, right?  
CG: OF COURSE I CONSIDERED THAT.  
CG: IF THAT’S REALLY THE CASE--AND I DON’T BELIEVE IT IS FOR A SECOND--THEN WHERE THE HELL IS MY FUCKING PHONE CALL, HUH?  
TT: Maybe he used it calling someone else?  
CG: HA FUCKING HA.  
CG: THAT IDIOT DOESN’T HAVE ANYONE ELSE.  
TT: Maybe he reconnected with his family.  
CG: TROLLS DON’T HAVE FAMILY.  
TT: Sure they do.  
CG: OKAY, SO SOMETIMES WE GET A LITTLE CHUMMY WITH TROLLS WHO SHARE SIMILAR GENETICS.  
CG: IT’S STILL NOT THE SAME CONCEPT.  
TT: Okay, so he didn’t contact his family.  
CG: OH JESUS CHRIST.  
CG: YOU’VE GOT TO BE SHITTING ME.  
TT: Care to let me in on the joke?  
CG: THE JOKE?  
CG: MY LIFE IS THE FUCKING JOKE, AND MY EXISTENCE IS THE PUNCHLINE.  
CG: ESPECIALLY MY DOWNSTAIRS NEIGHBOR.  
CG: I SWEAR HE PLAYS THE MOST EAR-DUCT SHATTERING BULLSHIT HE CAN FIND ON PURPOSE.  
CG: I NEED TO TAKE CARE OF THIS.  
CG: THE SOUNDTRACK TO MY DESPAIRING MISERY CANNOT BE DUBSTOP AND 80s POP.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] is now an idle chum --

You stare at your laptop monitor with as much contempt as you can manage (which isn’t much, the machine is a powerful handmade monster with an upgraded quad-core processor and an absurd amount of RAM.) You sigh and refresh the homepage to your blog, eyeing the insolent little mail icon at the top of your dashboard as you slam your index finger onto your mouse repeatedly. It’s been nearly a week since you last heard from your number one worst fan, and you’re starting to miss his scathing insults and terrible sense of humor. Absorbed by impatience, you nearly lose control of your bowels when Kankri’s voice explodes from beside you.

“Trigger warnings are important!” Kankri shouts, eyebrows narrowed in an impressive display of anger. 

Cronus waves him off easily, unfazed. “Trigger warnings are bullshit,” he says, speech thick with seadweller accent. 

Taking sides and picking favorites has never been on your agenda but when Kankri finally snaps and tackles Cronus to the ground, lips pulled back and teeth bared, you can’t help but feel a sick sense of satisfaction that the smug fucker is finally getting what he has coming to him. Your enthusiasm dismounts it’s high horse and shoots itself straight between the eyes when the first sickening crunch of impacted bones pierces the air. Kankri growls low in the back of his throat, eyes fixated and focused as he presses his knees into Cronus’ wrists. Even when pinned down Cronus manages to flash an arrogant sneer. 

“Wasn’t even sure you was capable a feelin’ pitch like the rest of us,” Cronus says, licking at the blood dripping from his nose.

Kankri’s hands hover uselessly in the air as his face changes rapidly from haughty to crestfallen, and before you can even gather enough gumption to get out of bed and break up the fight, it’s already over. Kankri miscalculates his movements in his effort to quickly escape the situation, stumbling backwards and wiping at his clean knuckles. Well at least one mystery is solved: ghosts can’t bleed. 

“So what, you think you can take me?” Cronus says, staggering towards Kankri.

Kankri shakes his head, stuttering out rapid fire apologies and keeping his hands held defensively in front of his face. He swallows and clasps his hands together in what you assume is an effort to stop them from trembling. It isn’t very effective but the gesture calms Kankri enough so that he can clear his throat and speak.

“Cronus, I apologize for what just happened, and I promise you--it will not happen again,” Kankri says, backing up a few paces as Cronus advances. “And if you think that was a black solicitation, I assure you that I meant no such misinterpretation, given my vow of chastity and, and,” his voice trails off when his back hits the wall, cornered by the larger troll.

That’s when you decide you’ve had enough of the Cronus and Kankri Quadrant Flipping Bullshit Show. This fruity rumpus assholery just went from Jerry Springer to Dr. Phil and you’ve had enough daytime television to last you at least a month. As a matter of fact, you’ve had enough of trolls, quadrants, and confusing romance bullfuck to last you a lifetime. You’re just opening your mouth to give Cronus a verbal lashing hard enough to bruise his ego when Roxy enters the room with a flourish and a bright laugh as if she’s been timing her dramatic entrance the entire time. You wouldn’t be surprised.

“Dirk!” she squeals, drawing the attention of the nearby trolls. You try to protest when she approaches you but it doesn’t stop her from wrapping her arms around your neck and pulling you face first into an awkward boob embrace. You grin and bear it because you love her. 

“Roxy,” you say calmly when she releases you. “I wasn’t expecting you until three thirty.”

She winks and kisses you on the cheek before sitting down on the edge of your bed. “I may have ditched eighth period,” she confesses. 

Your new visitor is only interesting enough to briefly distract Cronus. He turns back to Kankri and licks his lips. “Now I ain’t sayin’ it was a black solicitation, but I ain’t sayin’ it wasn’t neither,” he explains, fingers twitching at his sides. You consider your options and decide that you don’t like any of them. Roxy furrows her brow thoughtfully for a few moments before realization dawns on her. She claps her hands in excitement.

“They’re here,” she says in an eerie voice. She ignores your perturbed expression. “The TV people,” she explains. You facepalm at her Poltergeist reference and she ropes you into another joke before you can stop her. “I can see them,” she whispers beside your ear. The phrase catches the attention of your least favorite trolls and you fail to resist the urge to roll your eyes. Roxy elbows you in the ribs. “See what?” you ask, eager for her to roll in the punchline so this embarrassing facade can end.

“I see dead people,” she deadpans at last, and you’d be sighing in relief except you're in the middle of covering your ears because Cronus won’t stop screaming. Kankri reassures him that there are no zombies, vampires, ghosts, or otherworldly creatures in the room (you decide you’ll go over the definition of “otherwordly” with Kankri later.)

Roxy’s laughter cuts Kankri off mid-shriek. “They’re here, aren’t they?”

When you shake your head no Kankri and Cronus release simultaneous cries of offense. Heaving your chest in the heaviest sigh you can manage, you nod your head. “They’re here,” you admit at last. They’re wearing identical expressions of over-enthusiasm. “Might as well get the introductions out of the way,” you concede.

Somehow, it isn’t as weird as it should be. Roxy trusts you enough to believe in something that you’re still unsure of yourself. Either that, or she’s as staggeringly gullible as she pretends to be, but you doubt it. She asks you to relay a message to them but you just shake your head. “They can hear us,” you remind her. “You just can’t hear them.”

The next few hours are spent recapping Cronus and Kankri’s existence so far. Roxy asks questions nonstop and Kankri and Cronus are all too happy to engage her. Stuck in the middle as a translator doesn’t exactly make your situation ideal but you can’t find it in you to tell Roxy no. When the answers finally start flowing you feel foolish and self-absorbed. You find yourself wondering why you hadn’t interrogated them sooner. 

At first you find out a ton of useless information that’s either embellished beyond repair or just straight up bullshit, like: Cronus was called the “King of The Quadrants” back in the day, or, Kankri’s grade point average was so high they had to create an entire new grading system just so that he could graduate. It’s all impossibly absurd, and quite frankly, it’s a waste of your time, but it’s your first set of clues regarding this anti-nihilistic escapade and you aren’t about to get picky. 

You repeat everything back to Roxy verbatim (at her request), because she wants to “gauge their personalities.” Eventually they start spouting information that’s at least mildly entertaining, like: Cronus always struck out like a bad solo game of face-fucked foursquare, or, Kankri’s a big liar and doesn’t even stick to his vow of chastity, and, Cronus never actually used a pail, or, even better, and Dirk’s personal favorite, that Kankri is just a huge bulgeblock with a stick shoved so far up his ass that he can’t even pail properly. 

Luckily Roxy finds the stories intriguing, and she prods and probes until you’re getting information that’s actually useful, like: the only reason they’re both here is because Kankri brown noses the Empress, and, no actually, it’s all Cronus’ fault for not abiding by her laws, and they go back and forth like that until you have a faint idea about what’s actually going on here. 

Roxy is squished beside you in the hospital bed by the time she’s satisfied, and you know she’s smart enough to draw the same conclusions that you have. She gives you a smug smile and keeps her eyes trained just below the ceiling as if she can see them hovering there. They’re both satiated and happy despite the bickering, eager to be the center of attention. Roxy accidentally shoulders you as she squirms closer, and Kankri says something you never imagined hearing from his lips.

“But I do believe I’ve spoken more than enough in regards to myself. Please, Roxy, I’d love to hear more about you.”

At first you think that maybe it’s just a stalling tactic or a way to skirt more questions, but halfway into a long, drawn out conversation regarding Roxy’s quadrants, you’re convinced that Kankri is either an incredibly good actor or genuinely interested in Roxy’s love life. Cronus is equally as proactive, offering romantic advice like a sage old married man when you’d bet your left nut he’s never been kissed.

“I like them both!” Roxy shouts. You raise your eyebrows but otherwise keep your commentary regarding Roxy’s dip into the interspecies dating pool to yourself. 

Kankri frowns, and his brow creases. “Now--and I’m not trying to trigger anyone here--but have you thought about maybe reevaluating your sexuality?” You relay the information in the most haughty, pretentious voice you can manage.

Roxy gapes. “Not really?”

Kankri takes a deep breath, a sign that this answer is going to be a lengthy one. “I’m not trying to shame anyone’s preferences, but Roxy, I think a more “alternative” lifestyle approach could really solve some of your problems.”

Roxy taps her chin when you finish speaking. “And just what lifestyle would that be?” 

Kankri grins. “Perhaps a panquadrant heteromantic one, if that isn’t too bold to suggest.”

You break down the words and understand the meaning of the phrases before Roxy can even ask what they mean. Kankri answers her with the same overblown self-involved douchiness that he answers everything, and you kind of just wish he would put a sock in it so you ignore him and explain it to Roxy yourself. 

“Multiple bitches up in each quadrant,” you say, just to watch Kankri squirm with the effort not to correct your derogatory speech. 

Roxy brightens visibly and that kind of makes this entire contentious discussion worth it. Cronus winks at you and you immediately try to wipe any semblance of a pleased expression from your face, but it’s too late.

“He’s pale for her!” Cronus announces, and Kankri’s eyes dart skeptically between you and Roxy. 

You try your best not to react but Roxy is quick and she still catches on. “What’re they saying? Dirk!” she complains, begging to be let in on the conversation. 

You shake your head and shrug your shoulders. “Did you say you brought the new Wii U?”

Roxy’s eyes swivel to her backpack and her lips stretch into a smile. That’s the ticket.

Halfway through your fifth round of Pikmin 3, you realize you have made a huge mistake. The game is needlessly complicated and the controls are just as convoluted and difficult to grasp. The map is bewildering at best, and hopelessly ineffectual at worst. The concept itself is conceivably compelling, but the execution is complete and utter shit. Roxy tries to regale you by pointing out the attention to detail in the graphics, but if you wanted to see plumage in high definition you’d pop on a nature documentary or stick your head out the window. 

“It’s not me,” you insist. “It’s the controls.”

Roxy shrugs. “I’m not having any problems with it.”

Your lips twitch imperceptibly downwards when she wins again. “The map is complete horseshit too,” you say. 

Roxy sighs, turning to you. “Just admit that you suck,” she says.

You shake your head and press start. This time is going to be different. This time you’re going to destroy her, you’re going to gather more fruit than she ever could, and you’re not going to lose any of your little anthropomorphic plant creatures either. Twenty-two minutes later, Roxy explains that you two have been playing co-op mode.

“That would have been nice to know earlier,” you say tersely.

Roxy giggles. “I liked seeing your face when you thought you were losing,” she says. 

The two of you play the next round significantly more relaxed, and you even divulge a bit of information about yourself. You tell her about the ever so clandestine handholding that took place in the hospital room between you and Jake and she gives you the most scandalized expression she can muster. 

“He asked to kiss me the other day,” Roxy admits. “Jake put-your-hormones-away English,” she says. “Am I right?” 

You incline your head and chucklesnort. You slip on a more serious face before Roxy can distract you with another round. “How was--” you don’t get to finish.

“It was fine. There was a lot of sketchy druggies and a troll with a carbonated beverage problem but mostly it was pretty legit.” There’s a brief period of silence while Roxy’s eyes wander around the empty room. 

“Are we alone?” Roxy asks, and when she winks you aren’t even sure if she’s trying to imply something or just wants to see if she can make you genuinely uncomfortable. You aren’t going to lose a game of heterosexual chicken.

“Just you, me, and my cancer,” you whisper seductively, moving in closer.

Roxy giggles and bats at you before lowering her voice to a whisper. “I’m being serious. Those ghosties of yours present?”

You nearly forgot their existence, and when you glance around the room you realize that they are indeed missing. “Just us,” you reassure her.

She exhales a gush of air. “So are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she says conspiratorially. You nod your head and the two of you speak simultaneously. 

“They’re doing it to prove something.”

“I think I’m dating Cronus’ little brother.”

You’ve known Roxy for most of your life, and you even have faint memories of the start of your friendship that fateful first day of kindergarten. Still, somehow you weren’t expecting this. You gape and then quickly shut your mouth, trying to piece together all of the unseen clues you clearly missed. You cycle through the information you have regarding your best friend and Cronus and come up empty handed and befuddled. 

Roxy awkwardly clears her throat before diving in. “That, you know, moirail I was telling you about. His big brother died recently. So, I mean. It’s just my best guess.”

You aren’t a troll and it’s pretty fucking stupid, but you hate the thought of her having a moirail. You can’t understand why Roxy would ever feel the need to have a moirail, as if having a best friend isn’t enough to satiate her emotional duress. You’re sure it has something to do with your irrational behavior regarding your disease and her unreturned feelings of romantic affection. Maybe.

“Speaking of big brothers,” she says, just when you start thinking that the conversation can’t get any worse. “Are you okay with Bro?”

Despite your lengthy explanation of why Bro in fact, deserves the coldest of all shoulders, you can’t seem to convince Roxy otherwise. Even when you explain his depreciative jokes about Japanese culture and the flippant way he disregarded what you’ve been through since the diagnosis, Roxy shakes her head. You don’t want to hear her out because you’re certain she’ll say something that makes you feel guilty.

“He’s trying to be there for you,” Roxy insists. “I know he’s kinda sucky but he’s still your family and I think he’s trying to make up for giving you such a fucked up childhood,” Roxy explains. “Which is more than I can say about my parents,” she mumbles.

You think that if Roxy is going to force you to face the facts and derail your teenage angst fantasies, you owe her the same in return. “Right, your Mom never tries to be a part of your life in really bizarre but still genuinely thoughtful ways,” you counter sarcastically.

“We’ve been through this D-Stri,” she says. “Rose was just being haughty and passive aggressive. She was practically lording my addiction problems over my head. Not to mention her stocked liquor cabinet is the reason I’m even in this mess.” You wonder if she really believes that. “You know, she’s never even touched the stuff,” Roxy continues. 

You see Roxy off after hopefully convincing her that her parents aren’t just total bitches with the sole intent to destroy her life. She sniffles when you hug her and makes you promise to allow Jane to come and see you eventually. You only give in so she’ll stop causing a scene in the hospital hallway, and when you finally wrench yourself out of her arms she waves and blows you a kiss. You give a little nod of your own and head back to your hospital room feeling slightly less doomed.

The feeling doesn’t last long. There’s a huge sign taped to the front of your hospital room alerting you and all the staff that there is a contagious pathogen lurking inside, and that protective gear must be worn beyond this point. After struggling through the fine print you find out that that said “pathogen” is known as “homo-feodus,” and just as the cogs begin turning in your head a nurse snatches your wrist away, as if you can catch the deadly disease from merely touching the sign. 

“We have to move you to a new room temporarily,” she says sweetly. 

It doesn’t seem like the world’s biggest inconvenience until you realize that you don’t have your laptop or your cellphone on hand. “What about my stuff?” you ask as she tugs you down the hallway like a five year old child. 

“We can send your stuff over in a few days,” she assures you.

Now it sounds like the biggest inconvenience in the world, as if just having cancer isn’t it enough or something. You sulk silently and drag your feet the entire way, and despite her rushing and prodding not once do you obey her command to “pick up the pace.” The two of you end up one floor up and two wards over in front of room 413, and despite the violent drawings depicting colorful massacres that line the space between doorways, she assures you that she’s following proper protocol and you are indeed in the right place.

The nurse does an about face when you pull open the door to reveal a half-dressed cherub, and though your first thought is to turn heel and leave shock keeps you rooted in place. The girly colors and cascading lollis don’t got nothing on the sheer beauty of the typography: I’m gonna wreck it! His underwear is so far beyond stereotypically embarrassing that your brain almost can’t process the hilarity of the situation. The irony levels in this room have skyrocketed so high that your scouter can’t properly read the power level. 

On the verge of a mental prolapse, you force your eyes up to find that his abdomen is muscled and markedly similar to your own, though shinier and more tightly wound. You wonder what it would feel like beneath your fingers. Smooth? Hard? Both? Your face remains impassive but your gut gurgles when you finally get a good look at his face and recognition dawns on you. 

Either you’re significantly more racist than you ever realized, or all cherubs really do look the same. Thank fictional god and praise the holy might-be heavens above that Kankri lacks omniscience, because you have never been less in the mood to listen to him explain the intricacies of warped speciest thought patterns and decades of Human-Cherubian oppression.

Red eyes narrow and when the skeletal jaw opens in a grimace you spot a single gold tooth. Holy baloney My Little Pony, this bitch must think he’s Nelly. “Damn. A grill that nice? You must be having a cook-out.” 

He rushes to pull his shirt the rest of the way down when you say that, which is a real shame as far as you’re concerned. A mixture of confusion and rage contorts his face and it’s like watching a puppy desperately trying to chase it’s own tail--useless, ineffectual, and mostly pathetic--but sort of cute and nonetheless entertaining. 

“Get the fuck out,” he rasps, scrambling for the laptop at the head of the bed that you hadn’t even noticed. Once it’s in your field of vision you aren’t sure how you managed to miss it, what with the way it’s blaring loud, second-rate pornography soundtrack music peppered with breathless moans and...clicking? Well if it isn’t the sweet sound of interspecies hanky panky.

In the time it takes you to crane your neck in the direction of his computer the cherub has slammed the laptop shut, catapulted off the bed and landed in front of you, teeth grinding against each other as puffs of air burst from the holes where a nose should be. When he growls in your face you can feel a sweat break out on your neck but you snort derisively and raise an eyebrow anyway. After more than ten years of strifing lessons and an unspoken competition for who has the best poker face, it’s become pretty difficult to rile you up. 

“Hey, Brosef Stalin, what did you say your name was again?” you ask boredly. 

He backs up a few paces and hunches forward, and this is when shit jumps from r/mildly interesting to r/wtf. He rolls his shoulders backwards his body shifts and contorts like one thirty-day supply of Floam for just two payments of 19.95. After the initial shock recoils behind the safety of your shades, it becomes perfectly clear what’s going on here. You’ve spent enough hours sorting through clopclop on 4chan beside a bunch of self-entitled fedora wearing fucks to be able to recognize someone trying to wind you into some macho alpha-beta dominance battle. 

“You fucking pervert,” is all he says, and you feel as if your entire life has been prepping you for this exact moment. 

When he finishes speaking his forked tongue flickers out to taste the air, you can’t handle it anymore. Would someone please fuck you in the ass with a sonic boom and call you Rainbow Dash already? Because this is too much. It is taking every ounce of self-control you have in possession to not make a Mushu reference he won’t understand.

Besides, you’ve been on furaffinity long enough to know a thing or two about asserting your dominance. It’s a simple formula: remain unfazed no matter what, act as condescending as possible, and always, always take it a step too far. You remind yourself to thank Bro for raising you the way he did, and then you lean forward, thoroughly encroaching on the cherub’s personal space. You loop two of your fingers into his half clenched fist while maintaining direct eye contact. His face flushes red but he doesn’t look away.

“Pervert?” you repeat, pressing your fingers against his palm. It’s surprisingly soft. He shivers and you almost cop out. “Takes one to know one,” you say slowly, before releasing his hand and turning away to unpack. He sputters noiselessly behind you, and a few seconds later when he erupts like a clogged outhouse, you merely smile and nod.

You can tell already, this is the start of a beautiful broship.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed new tags and warnings, please.

The last time you felt this good was before Gamzee went missing, when the two of you would hunker down for a jam in the outrageous pile of stuffed animals you sleep in to feel less alone. You take a huge rip from the bong he bought for you to commemorate your moirallegiance. The smoke spirals into your lungs where you keep it trapped for several seconds before finally breathing out. Excitement bounces around your pan when the endorphins kick in. It’s almost as good as a fresh papping.

  
\-- caligulasAquarium began trolling carcinoGeneticist \--  


CA: hey kar  
CG: NO.  
CG: WHATEVER IT IS, COUNT SEA DIPSHIT, COUNT ME OUT.  
CA: hey dont be like that  
CA: im just sorta in a bad wway right noww  
CG: THE LAST TIME I HELPED YOU ON ONE OF YOUR STUPID FLARP ADVENTURES, I NEARLY DIED. DIDN’T TAVROS GET PUSHED OFF A CLIFF?  
CA: no not like that  
CA: emotionally speakin  
CG: OKAY, FINE.  
CG: WHAT GIVES?  
CA: i think sol is waxin the darkest obsidian for me  
CG: SOLLUX? AS IN SOLLUX CAPTOR, THE UNFLINCHINGLY APATHETIC COMPUTER NERD WHO FILLS ALL HIS QUADRANTS WITH CAPRI SUNS AND NEW TECHNOLOGY?  
CG: YOU HONESTLY THINK YOU’RE EVEN A BLIP ON HIS RADAR?  
CG: YOU MIGHT BE ALL FINNED AROUND THE EDGES, BUT HE IS A PSIONIC.  
CG: DO YOU REALLY THINK HE SEES YOU AS A CHALLENGE?  
CA: wwoww kar real nice  
CA: wway to spare my feelins  
CA: youre a real pal i dont knoww wwhy i didnt come to you sooner  
CA: you have a real wway wwith makin a guy feel like a real bucketlicker  
CA: you knoww that  
CG: SORRY.  
CG: I DIDN’T MEAN IT LIKE THAT.  
CG: HOW DO YOU FEEL TOWARDS HIM?  
CA: thats just it i dont knoww  
CA: one minute i wwanna tear his horns off and the next minute i wwanna hear him purrin in a pile wwith me  
CG: WOW, FILE THAT UNDER INFORMATION I DEFINITELY DID NOT NEED TO KNOW.  
CA: and that aint even the wworst of it  
CG: HOW CAN IT POSSIBLY GET WORSE?  
CA: i knoww right  
CA: but im startin to think my own glubbin moirail is fallin for him  
CG: WE ARE TALKING ABOUT THE SAME SOLLUX, RIGHT?  
CA: im pretty fuckin sure kar  
CA: unless you knoww another pissblood with an unclassy overbite and predilection for stealin my moirails  
CG: KEEP THE HEMONEGATIVITY IN YOUR TWISTED BDSM FANTASIES, AMPORA.  
CA: aww cmon you knoww i didnt mean it like that  
CG: DO I REALLY?  
CA: im bearin my soul to you here  
CA: cant a guy get an ounce a sympathy  
CG: SIGH.  
CG: WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY?  
CA: i dont knoww youre the master of romance or wwhatever  
CG: YOU HAVE A FUCKING MOIRAIL FOR THIS EXACT PURPOSE, YOU REALIZE?  
CA: i already explained she might be wwaxin pitch herself  
CG: I THOUGHT SHE WAS A HUMAN?  
CA: duh  
CA: glubbin hell are you even payin attention  
CA: thanks a lot  
CG: I AM. CALM YOUR SENSITIVITY BONES, FUCK.

  
\- - twinArmageddons began trolling carcinoGeneticist \- -  


TA: when are you 2ending me tho2e fiiles?  
TA: iim not employiing you to do jack 2hiit  
CG: YES SIR MISTER BOSS MAN.  
CG: LET ME POLISH YOUR LOAFERS WITH MY TONGUE WHILE I’M AT IT.  
TA: you know ii dont wear loafer2   
CG: LET ME TIE YOUR SNEAKERS, THEN.  
TA: ii dont know what qudrant thiis iis 2upposed two be, but iit2 creepiing me out  
CG: GET A SENSE OF HUMOR, I’LL SEND THEM OVER WHEN YOU AGREE TO BUY ONE.  
TA: you know a computer could liiterally do your entiire job, riight?  
TA: ii could actually program one and 2ave a ton on tiime and labor co2t2  
CG: OUCH, CAPTOR.  
CG: YOU HIT ME RIGHT IN THE CURRENT STATE OF OUR ECONOMY.  
TA: 2o  
TA: doe2 that mean ii wont be receiiviing your poorly encoded fiiles  
CG: I’M SENDING THEM NOW, CALM YOUR RUMBLE SPHERES.  
CG: BY THE WAY, HAVE YOU TALKED TO AMPORA LATELY?  
TA: why  
CG: NO REASON.  
TA: did he a2k you two do thii2  
CG: NO!  
CG: THOUGH HE DID MENTION THAT HE WAS WORRIED FOR HIS MOIRAIL’S VIRTUE.  
CG: OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT.  
CG: I KNOW IT ISN’T ANY OF MY BUSINESS, BUT DO YOU REALLY WANT TO BE KNOWN AS SOLLUX THE QUADRANT WRECKER?  
TA: iit doe2 have a niice ring two iit  
CG: I’M BEING SERIOUS.   
TA: 2o are you 2ayiing his moiiraiil liike2 me?  
CG: NOT AT ALL.  
TA: what exactly are you 2ayiing then KK?  
CG: I DON’T KNOW.  
CG: JUST TRY NOT TO STEAL HIS HUMAN MOIRAIL OKAY?  
CG: SHE’S BASICALLY ALL HE HAS.  
CG: WHAT WITH HIS DEAD DANCESTOR AND ALL.  
TA: biig whoop  
TA: 2ince when diid we all become human2 about iit?  
CG: FUCK YOU, THOSE OF US WITH HEARTS MANAGE TO FORM OCCASIONAL BONDS WITH THOSE GENETICALLY SIMILAR.  
TA: dont worry about iit KK  
TA: iim not even iinterested iin pur2uiing romance much le22 wiith human2  
CG: GOOD TO KNOW.  
CG: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.  
TA: mii22iion accomplii2hed?  
TA: what about my fiile2?  
TA: KK?  
TA: 2hiit

  
\- - carcinoGeneticist is an idle chum - -  


You’re probably going to send Sollux those files. Eventually. Maybe even tomorrow, but not right now, not when your downstairs neighbor is blasting the world's longest obsidian serenade directly into your hive. Not even the world’s dumbest, most naive wiggler can deny the blatant pitch overtones. Is this part of some elaborate seduction scheme? Why go through all the trouble for a troll you’ve never even seen before?

It only takes a few more minutes of listening to the song to spurn you into snapping. Somehow communication between you and your downstairs neighbor has become so regular that messaging him is almost routine.

  
\- - carcinoGeneticist began trolling turntechGodhead \- -  


CG: IT MUST TICKLE YOUR ABSURDITY PLATE TO KNOW I’M IN HERE STUFFING COTTON SWABS INTO MY EARS JUST TO CIRCUMVENT STAINING MY CARPET IN MY OWN FUCKING BLOOD.  
TG: yeah its going to look like a whale riding the red tide cruised on in while drinking cherry koolaid  
CG: WOW, THANKS FOR POINTING OUT MY NONEXISTENT PLACE ON THE HEMOSPECTRUM, YET AGAIN.  
CG: EVERYONE GATHER ROUND, IT’S TIME TO POINT AND LAUGH AT THE TROLL WITH GUTTER BLOOD.  
CG: WIGGLERS WILL STOP AND GASP, “LUSUS WHAT’S WRONG WITH THAT TROLL?”  
CG: AND THE LUSUS WILL TURN TO THE WIGGLER AND SAY, “DON’T LOOK AT IT BABY, HE’S JUST SOME MUTANT FREAK.”  
TG: uh  
TG: so  
TG: pretty sure i just hit a nerve  
CG: OH, YOU FUCKING THINK?  
TG: so actually i didnt know your blood was red  
TG: or bad  
TG: or whatever term is politically correct  
TG: differently blooded  
TG: isnt that what youre supposed to say  
CG: OH, HOW PERFECT.   
CG: YOU “DIDN’T KNOW.”  
CG: DO YOU KNOW WHY I’M FINDING IT IMPOSSIBLY DIFFICULT TO CONCEPTUALIZE A WORLD IN WHICH YOU CREATE METAPHORS THAT ARE ANYTHING OTHER THAN A GRATUITOUS WASTE OF MY TIME?  
CG: BECAUSE THEY’RE BULLSHIT.  
  
TG: what  
TG: no i just  
TG: ohh  
CG: “OHH,” WHAT?  
CG: COME ON, CLUE ME IN ON YOUR ENIGMATIC EPIPHANY.  
TG: well  
TG: i just sort of forgot  
CG: FORGOT WHAT?  
TG: that everyones blood isnt red  
CG: …  
CG: ARE YOU TRYING TO INSINUATE WITH THAT LAST STATEMENT THAT YOUR BLOOD IS  
CG: WELL  
TG: red  
CG: YEAH.  
TG: yes  
CG: YES, IT’S RED?  
TG: yea  
CG: YOU’RE INFURIATING, DO YOU KNOW THAT?  
TG: whoa youre coming on a lil strong there buddy  
CG: I DIDN’T MEAN IT LIKE THAT.  
TG: like what  
CG: LIKE WHATEVER INAPPROPRIATELY FLIRTATIOUS WAY YOU MISCONSTRUED MY INSULT.  
TG: wait  
TG: are you trying to tell me  
TG: that all this time  
TG: youve been flirting with me  
CG: NO.   
CG: HOW COULD YOU EVEN  
CG: YOU’RE THE ONE BLASTING CALIGINOUS LOVE SONGS INTO MY HIVE, LIKE YOU DON’T KNOW I LIVE ABOVE YOU!  
TG: caliginous love songs  
TG: wait  
TG: that’s the bump uglies with your arch nemesis one right  
TG: the batman/joker shit  
CG: NO SHIT, TROLLOCK HOLMES.  
CG: THEY’RE PRETTY MUCH THE ULTIMATE ROMEO AND JULIET OF THE PITCH ROMANCE GENRE.  
CG: A HATRED SO DARK IT DESTROYS THEM BOTH IN ITS INTENSITY.  
TG: hot

  
\- - carcinoGeneticist has ceased trolling turntechGodhead \- -  


The weed is finally startling to settle into your brain, draining your energy in mere seconds. You feel gleefully relaxed and content, like your biggest worry is your two closest friends killing each other over the seadweller’s moirail. The thought gives you a faint sense of deja vu, like this has already happened in an alternative timeline somewhere, drifting parallel to yours but never quite touching.

Puke sings you asleep on repeat, and you are almost entirely certain it’s purposefully chosen. It doesn’t even bother you much, keeps you company more than anything else. Your downstairs neighbor is hardly the first mutant you’ve met, but he’s definitely the first troll you’ve met who shares your blood color. What are the chances? You can’t help but feel that this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and if you can get your shit together long enough to not squander it, you might just be able to start something meaningful. 

Consciousness drifts away easy and slow, and reality wakes you hours later like a swift kick in the gut. 

You’ve always known that you’re a complete waste of space with no scruples or self esteem and are basically worthless on every level, but somehow you’re still disappointed in yourself. Every shaky, shallow breath you inhale is accompanied by the stench of rotting grubsauce, just another unneeded reminder of how you are only a disgusting worthless pus pustule on the gargantuan zit of existence. Each morning you fall asleep with anxiety wound tightly in your gut, snivelling into your pillow and making yourself promises you know you won’t keep, and each evening you wake up prostrate on the couch and disconcerted, too much of a lazy failure to even move to your cocoon for rest after smoking yourself into an immutably high stupor.

Except this evening you aren’t awakened by blaring technobeat eurotrash, you are awakened by sheer willpower, dragging yourself into consciousness with an unsteady lurch forward. Unlike usual you can remember falling asleep feeling distinctly hopeful (you can’t for the life of you remember what for.) Your eyes crack open to meet the cool evening light and a wave of nausea washes over you. The nightmare still lingers in the corners of your subconscious, your brother’s empty eyes wiped clean of all condescension. It’s ludicrous that your own brain can be this much of a scumbag, berating you with images of a death you’ve never witnessed. There was only a curt, professional phone call and you never bothered attending the cross cultural funeral-slash-corpse-party.

Unnecessary interspecies mourning parties aside, you’d meant to go, to see your “brother” one last time. Somewhere in the far recesses of your pan you’re still planning on it, as if any second now you’re going to hop in the shower and slip into your only suit, the one he insisted you’d need for a “real” job if you ever got your shit together. You still haven’t, and every day that passes by only brings you twenty-four hours closer to the reaches of your meager lowblood life expectancy. 

Bloodpusher frenzied with fear, you scramble through the blankets in search of your phone. After coming up empty handed twice, you aren’t sure if your nerves will be able to handle a third loss. The last of your dream dissipates as your fingers curl around your cellphone at last. You wrench it from beneath your pile on the couch and scan it for any contact from Gamzee. There is none. He still hasn’t responded to your last twenty-seven text messages, and when you ring him an automated voice system alerts you that the number is no longer in service.

What little calm you had managed to cultivate combusts, leaving your hands trembling as you scroll mindlessly through your contacts list. Anxiety propels your body into a series of instinctive flight responses, from an increased production of perspiration to the low, terrified growl compulsively forming in your throat. Your adrenaline and heartbeat accelerates simultaneously, leaving your brain bereft of coherency as you struggle to bait a single breath. 

It takes a few desperate, struggling attempts to breath before you realize what’s happening. The words float around your brain but you don’t understand how to apply them to your current situation: incoming panic attack. You strain to understand, to remember what you’re supposed to do to--to what? Could you ever really stop your own heartbeat from accelerating? Hating yourself and feeling increasingly frenzied, you try to remember what you did the last time this happened. You’re fairly certain it involved your moirail and/or drugs, both of which you have neither--

Jesus grubsucking christ, you’re such a crotch stained shitfucking waste of space. Of course you have weed. A hit or two will probably take the edge off. You dive into your pile and search for the tin Gamzee left you last time he was here. Having a moirail and a dealer in one never fails to come in handy. (Except for presently, with the way he’s probably arrested or disemboweled in a sewer somewhere, and you could kind of definitely use a motherfucking papping.) You tear the plant with your claws, eager to stuff it into your bong and maybe be able to think with some degree of clarity. A miscalculation of your lack of self-awareness sends the glassware toppling forward via your elbow, and you sit frozen and helpless as it topples to the floor with a loud crack.

The purple semi-translucent neck is cracked, and the lip of the jar is chipped, but it remains in otherwise usable condition. You take a deep, shuddery breath and gingerly begin picking the object up, only to have the little glass bowl slip out of the stem and shatter onto the floor. You remind yourself that it’s just an object, that it’s fixable, and that for christ’s sakes, you can order a new one online in less than fifteen minutes and have it at your front door tomorrow morning if you pay for expedited shipping. Still, your heart wrenches at the sight of the pathetically broken glass pieces. 

You try to inhale and your heart stutters, stalls, while your throat spasms uselessly. A functioning cardiovascular system is apparently only available to the cool kids. You blink back tears and try to carefully scoop up some of the larger shards of a glass. Your eyes unfocus as you collect the smaller pieces, and for a few moments you just drift, caught between the seconds as they slip by. A beat explodes beneath you and your muscles seize on instinct, palm warm and wet. When you cautiously uncurl your fist you are unsurprised to find it covered in blood. 

The act of bleeding is enough to startle you out of your dazed stupor and into action. You drop the glass immediately, rushing to the sink to rinse the blood and pick out as many of the smaller pieces as possible. It isn’t as bad as it looks and you can breathe without too much difficulty, but the trepidation trickling from your eyes is a constant reminder, pulse quickening as you struggle to suck it up and grow the fuck up, stat. You dry your hands on your pants and jump to snatch the rolling papers off the top of the refrigeration unit.

There’s a crease in your brow as you lay one flat in front of you. Gamzee taught you to roll joints on your second date: encouraged you to sit in his lap so he could curl around you, hunch over, and stretch out his lanky arms to demonstrate the method perfectly relaxed and natural. He tickled your ribs playfully when you failed your first attempt, reminding you even the alternian fleet wasn’t built in a motherfucking day. You conceded that he might be right, but after your sixth try you contested that if an engineer fucked the fleet up six times in a row, the Empress would certainly have him culled. 

Gamzee disagreed, body stiff around you. “Ain’t no one gonna up and cull my motherfucking moirail,” he said darkly. 

The paper lays mockingly on the table in front of you, thin and lifeless. Gamzee may have taught you the method, but that isn’t to say your nerves ever calmed enough for you to properly learn. Frustrated before you’ve even started, you take a deep breath and try to clear your brain of thoughts of your estranged moirail. Fuck! Why can’t you stop thinking about that bulgescratching lackadaisical shitmouth?

You tear another sheet of paper from the booklet and it rips three quarters of the way down. You clench your jaw and start over, dropping broken up pieces of weed down the center. You handle it carefully between your fingertips,  
inches from your eyes as you begin the difficult process of rolling it. One end is easily twisted close, but when you lean in to seal the paper with your tongue the side of your thumb catches your mouth, claw clipping your tongue. With a startled cringe there’s a destroyed joint lying on the table. 

Gamzee’s smile flashes in the back of your mind, lazy and languid, telling you to relax. You want to listen to him, you really do, but your heart just won’t stop and it’s becoming difficult to think when you can barely manage basic bodily functions without sending yourself into cardiac arrest. You hear your brother’s voice somewhere too, chastising you and reminding you to check your underprivileged privilege.  
When you open your eyes you hear nothing. You brother is gone, and just like him, Gamzee is likely to never return. An irrational part of your mind blames yourself, like, hey, wow, are you really so much a waste of space that your own moirail can’t be bothered to break up with you properly? That is what this means, right? Are you and Gamzee still together? Is he so dead that it doesn’t matter either way?

The silence breaks with the realization that you can hear music. It’s something o’clock in the evening but someone is here, someone is awake, and all at once you don’t feel like the last person in all of existence. Your downstairs neighbor might be a douchebagging, globelicking prick, but his taste in music isn’t always all that bad. You stumble down the stairs taking short, clipped, breaths, and when you reach the last step you finally allow yourself to crumble. For a while you sit hunched over like that, thoughtlessly listening to the same melodies you’ve been forced to listen to since this asshole moved in. In a weird way, it’s comforting. A confirmation of someone else’s existence, a sign that--

\--is a big fat middle finger pointing straight at you. A loud, rasping wheeze startles you out of your thinkpan, and with a painful lurch in your chest you realize the noise is your own. You clench your hand in a fist and let your nails cut crescents into your palm, desperate for something to distract you, to calm you. A vibration against your leg almost startles you into a scream. You managed to remember your phone amongst that chaos? You choke on the realization that--shit, fuck, it could be Gamzee--rushing to wrestle the device open and from your pocket all at once.

Your eyes scan the sentence and fail to process once, twice, three times.

It’s impossible. Your throat seizes and what little control you have managed to wrangle is beginning to wiggle through your fingers. There’s a thousand thoughts flooding your mind at once: does he really know you’re here? How did he hear you? What does this mean? Is it pitch? Why can’t you breathe? But horribly, most devastatingly of all, you keep thinking: where’s Gamzee, where’s Gamzee, where’s Gamzee? As if you don’t already know.

The music interrupts your thoughts, lost of it’s comfort it is merely distracting, annoying, even. You can’t think clearly over that stupid fuckheap of disco funk. You type furiously, fingers gliding with sweat.

Rage, and something darker blossoms, and you swing open the door and stumble out without prior thought, hunched over as your gut flops forward like a slop of spaghetti hurtling out of your pocket from nervousness. He is simultaneously underwhelming and yet nothing like you expected. For starters, he’s--

“For shitting out loud!” you can barely register how moronic you sound over the thundering of your own pulse. “You’re a fucking human?” you rasp, feeling betrayed, and shocked, but mostly just completely, entirely, overwhelmingly stupid. 

Dave flicks up his shades and makes a show of crunching one eye shut in the clumsiest wink you’ve ever witnessed. “Only after sunset during the night of the new moon.” It makes you want to punch his eye out (and then kiss it all better after you help him put it back in, maybe.) 

His hair is blond (you weren’t expecting that) and when he steps into your personal space (of course you weren’t expecting that, you weren’t expecting the peachy skin or the inability to properly process romance, either) you feel unrealistically intimidated. Breathing reclaims itself as a bodily function you’ve yet to conquer, and your heart skips a beat as your feet backpedal out of instinct. Your cheeks are still wet and your face probably looks like you just finished filming a facial starring the Kool-Aid man, but you can’t bring yourself to run your sleeve across your face like a just-hatched wiggler.

Why is he a human? Your brain is racing over every interaction the two of you have ever shared, dissecting word choice and searching for signs of catastrophic misinterpretation. The clues had been more than obvious--the constant ear beating shitty music, the never ending verbal banter, the stupid, most irritating nicknames that Dave could ever come up with--how, how hadn’t it been a classic pitch setup? The way he moved in downstairs and proceeded to make you hate something more than yourself is the kind of cheesey caliginous romance that’s supposed to be fated in the stars.

A hand squeezes your shoulder and it takes all of your willpower not to jump out of our own skin or strike defensively. His other hand reaches for his shades, and when he removes them and folds them around the collar of his blazer it makes the revelation of his eyes unnecessarily dramatic. You almost wonder if he planned it. You wouldn’t put it past him. They’re red, big whoop. Three cheers for mutant genetics. What is he getting at?

“Dude, are you okay?” he asks softly, and his eyes look so sincerely concerned that you want to tear them out for throwing away weeks of pitch flirtation that will result in the total sum of nothing. 

Your attention starved body betrays you, nerves restless for any kind of affection. His voice is the first you’ve heard aside from your own in days, though mostly due to lack of trying. Sollux will usually allow you to bitch into the headset while the two of you play minecraft, and Eridan is almost desperately willing to lend a mouth to anyone with working eardrums. In other words, your loneliness is at least partially self-imposed, which makes you feel all the more pathetic for wallowing in the resulting sadness. You feel diseased, trapped in some kind of emotional anorexia, and when Dave looks at you like that you can feel the floodgates threatening to break. 

“Earth to Karkinator,” he says, your least favorite nickname. Your face heats up in time with your heartbeat, and the black feeling nesting in your chest squeaks and runs away when his thumb brushes your cheek.

This is some seriously fucked up shit happening right here. 

Everything your brother ever said about your genetic predisposition for quadrant smearing and moirail napping is true. Non-binary romantic orientations notwithstanding, the soft caress manages to temporarily calm you. It feels wrong for another reason you can’t quite discern, something about moirallegiance which, fuck--Gamzee! You may not have heard from that no-talent assclown in over a week, but he’s been papping you since before you knew you needed him to.

Dave leans in further, lips frustratingly close to your face. “Just to be sure,” he says before tilting his head up and waiting precariously close to your mouth. “You like me, right?”

Your feelings are tripping over each other in a mad sprint towards your heart, and when he wraps his arms around you the desire to best him and wreck him dissolves into an incessant desire to bury your face in his neck. He snarks you, kisses you, all but paps you, and when you accept his affection like a meowbeast in heat you know that you’re the biggest, most disgusting, quadrant hopping dunderfuck in all of troll history. 

“Want to check out my crib?” he asks.

The word choice is so mind numbingly stupid that you want to turn back time just to rip it out of the sentence and punch him in the face with it. 

“You mean your hive?” you say, and for fuck’s sake, you must be the only person in all of existence who can manage to sound this condescending post-panic attack. For a brief moment, you think of your brother, and his voice is your own and it makes you want to claw at your vocal chords. 

“Sure,” he says, smiling easy. “My hive.”

You swallow thickly, trying to remain guarded without looking defensive. Like everything you’ve ever tried, you fail spectacularly. “Like a feelings jam?” you say, mouth dry. 

Despite a good two centimeters, he looks indifferent. It isn’t fair. You rarely run into a troll shorter than yourself. He isn’t a troll, but that’s besides the point. You’re better at him than something. You aren’t sure exactly what. Growing, you guess. Metabolizing vitamins, maybe. Genetics? More importantly, why isn’t he acting like it? Instead he’s acting like the two of you are moirails--that kiss, or, a matesprit, maybe?

“If you want,” he says calmly instead, and you wish he would just fucking drop the coolkid bullshit and spill already. Is this red or black? Pale, ashen, or any shade in between? Or is this some human-normative romance tango that’s flying right over you’re culturally insensitive nub-horned head?

The words almost startle you when they roll from your mouth. “What if I want...something else.” Your palms feel like a lowblood sweatshop. You pray that he isn’t as big of a douchebag as he could be and he never fails to prove you wrong and make you feel like a total ass.

“Well, it depends. Are you man enough to actually ask for it?”

At first you want to chew out your tongue, can barely stop mentally berating yourself enough to think properly. Why are you doing this? Why are you standing here? The urge to crawl back into the safety of your apartment and never leave it again almost wins out. His eyes catch yours and a heat so strong it almost makes you flinch erupts in your chest. When coherency dawns, you realize that you know who you want, even if you aren’t sure how or which quadrant you want him in. 

“I want to fuck,” you say, and once it’s actually out there, hanging in the air like a bloated pink elephant, it doesn’t feel so--no, nope, it feels about six thousand times worse. You never want to speak again, but your mouth won’t stop expressing the contrary. Like your brother, you are subject to the Vantas word vomit curse. “I want our genetalia to wrap around each other,” you’re saying, much to your own horror. 

Despite your best interests, you keep talking, cringing with each additional word. “...and probe inside one another and dance whatever dirty fucking dancing metaphor you like to use. I don’t care if it’s black, red, pale. Shit, I could feel heart-star-horseshoe for you and I literally could not give a flying fuck. Do you know why that is?” Dave shrugs and another surge to slam him against the opposing wall pricks in your neck. “It’s because I literally have thrown away every single fuck, save for this last, sacred fuck that I saved just for you.”

You close your eyes and inhale deeply, before looking him square in the eye. “Fuck me you cocktard,” you say.

Dave looks at you for a long time, and you almost want to take the words back, suck them back up into your mouth and pretend you never embarrassed yourself like this. His eyes level with yours before you can force yourself to look away and his lips quirk up. “It’s about damn time,” he says, and just like that, something is finally going right in your life.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Equius is really bad at his job.

Shit, dogg, this blue-blooded brother must be one of the strongest motherfucking trolls you ever did meet. You can tell in the way he carries himself and makes deliberate, cautious movements, muscles coiled with power desperate to spring into action. Even his hair is perfectly straight and cut, as uptight and well mannered as the rest of him. He seems surprised to find you entirely relaxed in contrast, languidly cast across the couch, half-lidded eyes just waiting for him to up and get his wicked on.

His jaw tenses as he stares at you from the doorway of your living room. “This is udderly--” he stumbles over the words as you sluggishly slough yourself into a sitting position. “Inappropriate,” he chokes out. 

You stretch your arms above your head and at last basic sense of decency forces you into a stand so you can greet him proper. When you step forward he inches backwards, but closes the door behind himself, looking undeterred. His chin juts upward and when his eyes sweep the room and survey spilled faygo and burned out joints, he scrunches his nose in disgust; pure condescension. 

“Lewd,” he starts, before correcting himself with an embarrassed snort that reminds you of a hoofbeast. “Loodicris,” he says, louder, more determined. “For a color this high on the hemospectrum to exhibit such loathsome behavior.” 

His chest is all puffed out, but there’s a fine sheen of sweat collecting on his forehead, a tremble in his movements that you ain’t about to up an embarrass a brother about. Probably ain’t everyday this motherfucker has to deal with unstable purple blooded failures like yourself.

“You might be motherfuckin’ right about that,” you say, back hunched, neutral position. You slink back over to the couch feeling like chilled grubsicle, that’s how motherfucking relaxed you are. 

The couch is the perfect vantage point to get a little surveying on of your own, right down to the way the Alternian police uniform clings to his well muscled--aww, shit, this brother is the police? It explains a couple things. Firstly, like, how he even up and happened into your hive in the first place, something you were kinda starting to get your wonder on about. 

“Am I under arrest?” you ask, only half serious.

For a brief moment you consider the probability of him exploding. Not at all the kind of huge mess you’d want to waste away a beautiful Saturday like this cleaning out of your living block. 

“You were already under arrest, Makara,” he manages through clenched teeth. “I’m your probation officer.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. You’re too much of a hot mess for anyone to really be able to take a sponge too, got too much poison in your blood and no plans to look for an antidote. If he really wants to he can gather up the evidence lying around your hive and push your case until it reaches the Empress, but if there’s one thing she don’t really give too much of a shit about, it’s highbloods like you committing minor infractions. It’s not like you up and went murderfrenzy on a motherfucker.

The other guy takes a deep breath, and you recognize the look in his eyes, seen the same in your own face every time you apply your paint in the bathroom mirror. Ruthless rage and...restraint. It ain’t a feeling that’s all too pretty to see, or at least, it wasn’t, not up until this tense motherfucker done hobbled into your hive wearing it. You almost wonder why he’s holding back, whether out of instinct or genuine concern. Does this motherfucker really think he can dish out anything you can’t serve back like a merry-go-round of violent appetizers?

You take a swig of cherry faygo and his jaw twitches. “The degrees to which you pollute your precious blood,” he swallows, wiping at his brow. “With your,” he gestures wildly, “bottled fizzy sugar and soporifics.” He shakes his head, and when he speaks his voice is louder, more confident. “It is vexing and you will stop.”

You stand immediately, voice dark and tinged with genuine surprise. No one save for your moirail ever orders you to do a motherfucking thing, and you sort of motherfucking like it that way. “Whoaaa,” your voice is deep but he doesn’t back down. “I will?” you arch your eyebrows and you can feel the paint crease on your forehead. “Now how the motherfuck would you up and know a thing like that?”

Equius shakes his head. “No, you don’t understand. It’s not a prediction, it’s an order.” His eyes level with yours and you’ve never been so astounded by the audacity of a single motherfucker in all your life. “I command you to stop.”

Circus noise rattles your pan so hard you almost destroy the wicked elixir your claws is wrapped up around. You force yourself to take a drag from the joint burning away between the fingertips of your other hand. You blow the smoke into his horrified face and smile. “Alright brother,” you say, smashing the lit end of the joint between your thumb and forefinger. “You motherfucking got it.”

You’d think a troll never up and followed a single one of his orders in his entire life. “What?” he says, scrambling. He struggles with the newfound power, wrought with disbelief and disgust. “Are you...serious?”

“Yeah,” you say with a shrug, flicking the roach away for emphasis. “I mean, you got to show some faith in somebody, right? And why not my motherfuckin’ probation officer? You’re all being to look out for me, right?” Despite discomfort, he inclines his chin. “So fuck if you say I’m not doing the shit right, then what the motherfuck do I know!” 

The revulsion is so apparent you can almost see his skin crawl. You’re back on the couch again, feet must have gotten sick of all that motherfucking standing when you wasn’t minding them too good. “No,” Equius says, shuddering. “This is unacceptable.” He clenches his fists and shakes his head. “Okay, let’s start over. Your habits notwithstanding, I am still lesser than you.” At first, you really ain’t too sure where he’s going with this. “An inferior,” he says, avoiding eye contact. 

You don’t know how this homeboy is below you at anything, what with the way the police checked you like a mediocre english paper. It’s whack how a brother can be so down on himself, thinking himself so low he up and stuck you on the top shelf right next to wear you keep the motherfuckin baked beans and shit you ain’t got no good intention of eating. You don’t want no parts of canned legumes. You’re equal as any motherfucker and you want it all out on the table where everyone can see it, right next to the sugar and flour and motherfuck, you should make some pie. 

“You want some pie, bro?” you ask him, trying to be all polite and whatnot. Besides, only thing better than pie is a friend to share it with.

“Equius,” he corrects. 

“My bad,” you say, shrugging. You stand and start meandering towards the kitchen. He’s still for a moment before you hear him tailing you.

“Highblood,” he starts, and you hate how you already like the sound of that. You ain’t higher than no other troll! (All right, except for midway into some serious dank but you’re not talking chronic, here. You’re talking rank.) “I think we should stick to protocol and discuss some of your…” he clears his throat as you bend down to preheat the stove. “Unsavory tendencies,” he finishes awkwardly as you stand.

“Unsavory?” you say in disbelief. What kind of shitty motherfuckin pie has this fool been eating? “Naw, bro. My shit is strict,” you say, pouring flour into a bowl. You cook pastries from scratch, so’s you can make sure every little crumb is full-on blasted with love and motherfucking miracles. Besides, if you bake him a fuckin pie the two of you can chill and become better bros that way.

Equius shakes his head. “I will partake if that is what you command,” he says tersely. 

“Command? Shit, I ain’t trying to up and force nothin’ on a brother,” you reassure him. That shit ain’t right. It’s straight up sacrilegious to force a pie on anyone. Motherfucker has to come to terms on his own, see the light and open his heart and belly to it’s miraculous gooey substance. 

Equius lets out a sigh of frustration. “Don’t you understand that you are better than me?” he asks. “Can you please act like it?” You arch your eyebrows as he rushes to correct himself. “That’s not a command,” he says with a cough. “Rather, more like a polite suggestion.”

This don’t sound all too right. “I don’t know if that’s all the right way to being seeing shit,” you say honestly. “You’re way out of pocket,” you add. “This ain’t motherfuckin Alternia.” 

“Makara,” Equius says neutrally. “In addition to being your probation officer, I am also your counselor. Those duties extend to teaching you to channel and control your rage so that further...outbursts, may be avoided.” 

The way he says outbursts is so melodramatic, like goddamn, why is every troll in this city acting like you up and killed a motherfucker? That psycho, four horned, cullbait tagteam attacked you, due cause your skinny gray ass. 

He waits a few seconds more, maybe to wrangle up all his loose thoughts or maybe to check himself, you don’t rightly know. “Please, trust my experience and professional opinion on this matter.”

You lick the filling from your fingers and cover the pie dish. Equius glances away and shifts his weight anxiously. You give in because shit, you never said you wasn’t easy. “Okay, I can try,” you tell him. “But man I don’t know if I know how to be like a better motherfucker than any other motherfucker.” 

“Look, it isn’t that difficult.” Equius takes a deep breath. “Think of it as a roleplay exercise to prepare you for a real life scenario that could occur.”

“Role-play?” The words feel unfamiliar in your mouth. “Like making pretend we’re all about something we ain’t about?” 

Instead of waiting for an answer you bend down and slide that bangin’ pie into the oven like nobody’s business. You stay in position for a few seconds, marveling at the way that pastry is straight up slammin’, practically glowing under the faint light from the oven.

The sound of wood cracking distracts you from your bombin’ beauty. Equius is standing stock still, fingers wrapped around the top rail of one of the kitchen chairs. The wood is all jacked up, splintered and squashed. His eyes are full on panic mode, like he’s about to up and shit a cold purple Twinkie over the state of your trashed chair.

“Don’t go gettin’ choked,” you warn him. You approach him with a smile but his forehead remains wrinkled with worry. You wrap your fingers around his wrist and he jerks his hand away immediately. “Ain’t no thing,” you tell him softly. “I ain’t never liked that chair much anyway.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not angry,” he reassures you. 

You drag your eyes across the length of his body before settling on his face. His cheeks flush blue and you can smell sweat forming in the juncture of his neck. “Then that makes two mellowed out motherfuckers,” you tell him. You wrap your arm around his broad shoulders and lean down by his ear, mouth twisted in a wide grin.

“Just wait until you taste the pie,” you remind him, as another sickening crunch alerts you to the increasingly destroyed state of your chair. You saunter towards the stove, not bothering to withhold an amused chuckle when you bend at the waist to check your progress and Equius excuses himself to bathroom. 

When he returns, he appears significantly less flustered. You’re halfway through your fourth slice of pie when a frown contorts his otherwise neutral expression. “I expect you to take this seriously,” he starts, and you’re already disinterested. “I do not wish to be saddled with all of your problems,” he says, dabbing at his brow. “But rather I wish to help you rein in your…” he pauses, almost reconsidering. “Natural instincts,” he decides at last before continuing. “So that we might harness it and turn it into a skill befitting to such a troll so high on the hemospectrum.”

Your head lolls to the side as you suck your index finger clean of slime. “I’m down, bro,” you tell him, more out of it than you’re willing to admit. “Let’s do all that motherfuckin’ shit you’re getting your blast on about.”

He nods his head solemnly, chest heaving as he sighs. “Rule number one,” he begins, walking stiffly towards you. “No pie.” 

Any other time, taking a pie from your sopor starved paws would be a personal affront. Fortunately for Equius, your pan is handle deep in troll tranquilizer and human marijuana. Instead of reactionary rage, all your drugged body can muster up is a lopsided frown. Motherfucker is taking your pie, you can hardly believe it. Your motherfucking pie.

He places it inside a plastic bag and ties the handles in a tight knot. “At least, not any that will…” he steels his own disgust. “Intoxicate you,” he clarifies. 

  
\-- centaursTesticle [CT] began trolling terminallyCapricious [TC] \--

CT: D --> I expect you have been practicing independently in my absence  
TC: uHhHhHh.  
CT: D --> That statement isn’t reassuring in the least  
TC: WeLl i DiD tHrEaTeN To CulL a LitTlE mOtHeRfUcKeR wHo Up AnD iNtRuDeD oN mY hIvE  
CT: D --> Good  
CT: D --> It pleases me to hear tales of your verbal subjugation  
CT: D --> I presume this was a lesser being, discontent with his rank in society who sought retribution through illegal means  
TC: WeLl To Be StRaIgHt WiTh YoU i’M nOt MuCh ToO sUrE iF sQuEaKbEaStS aRe AlL tHaT mOtHeRfUcKiN iNvOlvEd  
CT: You were referring to a mouse  
TC: bUt ThErE wAs SoMe SuBjUgGaLaTiOn GoInG oN fOr SuRe!  
TC: i uP aNd sUbjUgGaLaTeD iT rIgHt iNtO aN eMpTy bOtTlE oF fAyGo  
TC: nOw We KiNd oF sEtTlEd DoWn AnD mE aNd mItZzY aRe ShArInG sOmE pIe  
TC: ThIs MoThErFuCkEr iS pRetTy dOpE aCtUaLlY  
CT: D --> Ok  
CT: D --> It pleases me considerably less to hear things like that  
CT: D --> But I’ve already stated that I have no right to be disappointed by your conduct, so I’ll try to control myself  
TC: aW sHiT bRo, I dOn’T wAnT tO bE aLl LiKe To DiSaPpOiNt YoU!  
TC: WhAt CaN i Do To MaKe A bRoThEr FuCkIn ShApE hIs ShIt Up?  
TC: If I cOuLd MaKe YoU sMiLe It’D bE tHe BeSt fUcKiN mIrAcLe I cOuLd Be A pArT oF  
CT: D --> You can begin by ceasing to poison your beautiful blood.  
TC: ShIt BrO, yOu ThInK mY bLoOd Is BeAuTiFuL?  
CT: D --> Not yours specifically  
CT: D --> Let’s stick to the mane point here, Makara  
TC: HuH?  
CT: D --> Try to be cognizant of your desires and needs  
CT: D --> And attempt to regard those around you as simple vehicles meant to bring about your gratification  
TC: WoW, wHaT?  
CT: D --> Let’s try approaching this from another angle  
CT: D --> Can you e%plain how you were feeling during the time of your arrest  
TC: NoT mUcH tO bE hEaRd.  
CT: D --> Can you recall the incident clearly in your mind  
TC: ShIt Is MoThErFuCkIn CrYsTaL  
CT: D --> Yet you can’t recall how you were feeling?  
TC: not so mothefucking good  
TC: NOT SO MOTHERFUCKING GOOD AT ALL, BRO  
CT: D --> I see  
CT: D --> Have you considered attempting to fill your pale quadrant?  
CT: D --> It may offer some stability  
CT: D --> An outlet to de-stress  
TC: Aw ShIt BrOtHeR, i NeVeR kNeW yOu WeRe PaLe In ThE kNeEs FoR mE  
TC: YoUrE a FrEsH fUcKeR bUt  
CT: D --> Do not misinterpret, Makara  
CT: D --> You are not nearly as pathetic as you are used to pretending  
TC: i’M nOt?  
CT: D --> Let’s not stray from the matter at hand  
CT: D --> Moirallegiance  
TC: I dOn’T kNoW tHaT i’M eVeN aT a PlAcE tO cOnTeMpLaTe EnTeRtAiNiNg ThAt KiNd Of tHiNg

  
\-- terminallyCapricious [TC] is now an idle chum --  


Equius Zahak is one cold piece of work. He is definitively the most stubborn troll you’ve ever met, and he is ruthless in his sobriety sweeps and unyielding on even the lowest and least important of rules. When he doesn’t show up in person to sniff and poke around your hive, he pesters you online and asks you if you’ve had any “reefer,” like damn, motherfucker, even you don’t say that shit no more. You report that you aren’t experiencing any adverse side effects from withdrawal, though a sudden clarity is crackling like fresh grease in your pan.

You try to explain it to Tavbro, the way sobriety starts a wicked jam in your head that you don’t mean to pay no mind, but your Bull is too soft in the middle for all that dark harshwhimsy, even a dumb motherfucker like you can tell that much. 

Still, you want him to know it wasn’t a caste-ist kind of whatever the fuck the papers are up and calling it, it was self-defense, and it ain’t like the teal-blooded bitch didn’t survive with barely a scrape on her. Just thinking about her nasty, ear grating cackle is enough to get your blood flowing, so you do like Equius taught you and divert the train before it can even leave the motherfucking station. The point you’re trying to make is that you would never turn a black hand on your Tavbro, your flushcrush.

  
\-- terminallyCapricious began trolling adiosToreador \--  


TC: YoU kNoW iT wAsNt A cAsTe-IsT kInD oF wHaTeVeR tHe FuCk ThE pApErS aRe Up AnD cAlLiNg It  
AT: cASTE-IST?  
AT: i DIDN’T HEAR ANYTHING ABOUT THAT, aCTUALLY,  
TC: GoOd  
TC: ThEN iT’lL bE dOwNeD iN sTrAiGhT fLaT bOaRd SiDeD mIrAcLe  
AT: tHAT’S A GOOD THING, i GUESS,  
TC: ShIt Is MoRe ThAn GoOd  
TC: HoNk  
TC: ShIt iS mOtHeRfUcKiN mIrAcLeS  
AT: uHH, oKAY,  
TC: So TaV, wHaT’s Up WiTh YoUr BaD sElF?  
AT: nOT MUCH,  
AT: fIDUWSPAWN BREEDING, mOSTLY,  
TC: YoU rEaLly LoVe YoUrSeLf SoMe MoThErFucKiN CuTeBeAsTs  
TC: sHiT iS aLmOsT tOo MoThErFuCkIn PeRfEcT  
AT: wHAT IS SO PERFECT ABOUT THAT,  
AT: mE LIKING FIDUSPAWN, i MEAN, wHICH I THINK IS WHAT YOU’RE REFERRING TOO,  
AT: aLTHOUGH, nOW I’M NOT ACTUALLY CERTAIN IF THAT’S WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT,  
TC: ShIt, I dOn’T kNoW bRo  
TC: tHe WaY yOu GeT yOuR mIrTh oN wItH tHeM bEaSts  
TC: yOu GoT tHaT sHiT uNdEr wRaPs LiKe iT wAs tWeLfTh pErIgeE’s EvE  
TC: CoUpLeD wItH tHaT bOmBaSs rAcK  
AT: wOW, tHANKS,,  
TC: AnD ThE wAy We TrAdE rHyMeS iS rAw SiIiIiIiCk  
AT: hAHA, oUR FIRES ARE SO SICK,  
AT: tHAT WE SHOuLD PROBABLY CALL AN AMBULANCE,  
AT: bECAUSE OUR BEATS ARE SO ILL THAT THEY MIGHT EVEN REQUIRE HOSPITALIZATION,  
AT: oR SOME FORM OF, uH, mEDICATION  
TC: YoU sPiTiN sWeEt At ThE mOtHeRfUcKiN cOnGrEgAtiOn, sTrAiGhT uP bOmBaStIc  
TC: wHeN wE gEt oUr ChIlL oN aT yOuR hIvE tHaT sHiT iS fAnTaStIc  
AT: aHAHA, aWW YEAAAAHHH,,  
TC: MaKeS a BrOtHeR wAnT tO uP aNd GeT sOmE sLopPy MaKeOuTs On,  
AT: uHH,,  
AT: i’M NOT REALLY SURE ABOUT THAT LAST PART,  
AT: uH, tHANKS GAMZEE,  
AT: i’M REALLY FLATTERED, bUT YOU ACTUALLY SORT OF,  
AT: uHH, ALREADY TOLD ME THIS, ONCE BEFORE,  
AT: yOU’RE A REALLY GREAT FRIEND GAMZEE, aND I REALLY LIKE BEING YOUR BRO, bUT,  
TC: don’t you think if i up and told you a thing like that  
TC: I MOST SURELY WOULD GET MY MOTHERFUCKING REMEMBER ON?  
AT: wHOA, uH,  
AT: gAMZEE, aRE YOU OKAY?  
TC: motherfucking bitchtits brother  
TC: WHY DO YOU ASK?  
AT: aRE YOU SURE THAT MAYBE YOU HAVEN’T HAD SOME PIE, OR,  
TC: heheheheh  
TC: HONK.  
TC: nah, brother, it’s all good  
TC: NO MORE MOTHERFUCKING PIE  
AT: oH, oKAY,  
AT: uH, yOU’RE KIND OF FREAKING ME OUT,,  
TC: freaking you out?  
TC: I GUESS I’M ALL MOTHERFUCKING WEIRDING OUT AT SOME EXTENT TO MY OWN MOTHERFUCKIN SELF.  
AT: wELL, hAVE YOU TRIED, MAYBE,  
AT: dISCUSSING THIS WITH YOUR MOIRAIL,  
TC: shut the motherfuck up.  
AT: uHH,,,  
TC: SHUT THE FUCK UP.

  
\-- terminallyCapricious [TC] ceased trolling adiosToreador [AT] \--  


It’s different when you’re sober. Without faygo or sopor or your naughty homegirl Mary Jane to cushion the crazy, all you’ve got left is emptiness; stone cold apathy until the thoughts start creeping in, winding you up nice and easy like a mechanical bunny, like all you’ve ever been born to do is hop around and gut those that are deserving. 

You don’t want to think about your motherfucking---he’s not even your moirail, not anymore. You know you done fucked up big enough that he’s had enough, been sick of your clowning for almost as long as you’ve been a acting a motherfucking fool. Besides, what kind of motherfucking shit did that cullbait give about you anyway? That short stack of mutant was poisoning you til you zoned the fuck out, but now you’re all about the truth and you’re brain is finally revealing how the wicked ignorance is really kicked.

“Exactly, now channel that rage into--”

You’ve had enough of this blue blood and all his motherfcuking orders. It’s high time you flipped the motherfucking script. “I said, shut the motherfuck up motherfucker.”

Panic doesn’t set immediately, or if it does, he hides it well. Instead his chest expands as he manages to inhale a final breath before your hold around his neck tightens. The blue in his eyes is unwaveringly cool, and for the first time since you’ve met him, relaxed. Now he’s up and done it, teasing you with his calm like he doesn’t know you’re weirding out, like you’re hardly yourself anymore. It’s almost like, Gamzee, who the motherfuck is that? That bitch is somewhere else, zoned the fuck out for just long enough for you to spread the wicked motherfucking news.

There’s a sweat breaking out on the blue blood’s forehead that you can smell, even at arms length. Fear creeps in slowly, disguised as distraction at first, like you aren’t the motherfuckin’ expert on wolves in sheeps clothing. Your nails sink into his skin for good measure, and his eyes bulge, just a little bit.

The best part, the part you almost can’t believe, is that when you’re straddling him like this, fingers wrapped around his throat, you can feel his pants tent, bulge unsheathed. His interest in you is less than professional but barely romantic and completely motherfucking sicknasty. 

“Am I cognizant enough for you motherfucker?” you ask, grinding down against him. “Are my motherfucking desires apparent, shitblood?” 

The desires fighting inside you to wreck him and protect him, to break him apart and play with all the little pieces is verging on unbearable. Rage bubbles in your gut red-hot and unyielding, and for a moment you consider snapping his neck like a frosty bottle of faygo, and you’re a motherfucking ringleader of laughassassins. 

You watch in abject fascination as his faces turns colors like a botched magic trick. A shudder overtakes his body and when his eyes flutter back open the muscles in his throat contract as he smiles weakly. 

With his face flush and long hair mussed and distressed, he almost looks a little fucking alive. “Miracles look good on you brother,” you say, and fuck, it is time to snap bones and paint the walls blue.

Instead you feel your fingers moving without your command, watching in amazement as the muscles in his throat expand and bulge with immeasurable strength. The sheer shock is kinda paralyzing, instinct encouraging stillness in heed of survival. The grip around your wrists is immovably tight, rock solid as he prys your hands away. 

“Thank you, highblood,” he says, and for some reason the tone in his voice and the edge in his eyes sets you at ease. “Your rage is exceptional,” he continues, as if you didn’t nearly strangle him to death with your bare hands. 

Your own fingers are still tingling from the touch, nerves lit up like sparklers on the fourth of July.

“You’ll have to excuse me, highblood,” he says, like he isn’t rendering you immobile with such ease that you’re surprised he hasn’t up and culled you yet. “I am not usually one to encourage...pacification,” he says with a cough. 

The bruises are forming on his neck already, varying shades of blue that you want to press the pads of your fingers against, nuzzle them with your nose when he flinches away. Motherfuck, that little hoofbeast is still whinnying at the noisemaker. He’s explaining the quadrants to you like you’re actually pan fried and drooling at the mouth. Of course you know what a motherfuckin moirailagaince is all about, your pal Karbro was only the most baller moirail to ever have papped you into your place. 

Though you still can’t move your arms you can feel the tension draining from your shoulders. His eyes are like white crescent moons when he casts them down passively and you feel something start in your bloodpusher, a gush or a spurt or a straight up splatter, and for a second you wonder if maybe you don’t know how to breathe. Your shoulders roll back and you extend your neck without really knowing what you’re all about to do. His scent reeks of submission and for a moment a darker part of you considers tearing at his face with your teeth.

You kiss him instead.

When you pull away he clears his throat. “This is unexpected,” Equius says awkwardly. 

A calm is washing over you, unlike a pap or any kind of pacification you’ve ever felt. “Motherfuckin miracles,” you remind him.

  


  
\-- terminallyCapricious has begun trolling adiosToreador \--  


TC: shit tavros  
TC: I’M REAL MOTHERFUCKIN SORRY.  
AT: iT’S OKAY, i THINK,  
AT: aLTHOUGH I WAS A LITTLE WORRIED, aT FIRST,  
TC: naw tavbro  
TC: YOU DON’T NEED TO BE WORRYING ABOUT NOTHING  
TC: that shit i said before  
TC: IT WAS ALL FUCKED UP  
TC: and without my best motherfucking friend  
TC: WHAT THE MOTHER FUCK WILL I BE SUPPOSED TO DO  
TC: i’ve got to believe at what my heart tells in me  
TC: EVEN IF IT’S A FAKE THING  
TC: you know?  
AT: uH, yEAH, BELIEVING IN A THING THAT OTHER PEOPLE THINK IS FAKE,  
AT: iS DEFINITELY A THING I CAN RELATE TO,  
AT: iS THE THING YOU’RE THINKING OF, mIRACLES, mAYBE,  
TC: heh.  
TC: HONK.  
TC: motherfucking miracles is right tavbro  
TC: YOU JUST GOT TO BE IGNORING ALL THIS MURDERING NOISE  
TC: and listen out for the miracles.

  
\-- terminallyCapricious is now an idle chum --  



	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters are gonna be a bit shorter and less involved from here on out so I can focus on completing and posting the remaining chapters. Thanks for understanding!

You’ve had it up to here with your new roommate and his impenetrably asinine rainbow freefalls of frivolous banter. The way he leaves the toilet seat flipped up is almost as inconvenient as the way he monopolizes the shower. Thirty-six minutes with no dorsal or paraventral scales to clean around? You know what he’s up to in there. You can smell the mastication from here. Pathetic.

Two days with Dirk, and you have already learned two things. First and foremost, everything Dirk says and ever will say is entirely useless. The second thing you have learned is that you may have underestimated him. It isn’t your fault that the only part of him that isn’t completely worthless is his ability to draw the most atrocious illustrated debauchery the likes of which you never dreamed. You’d draw it yourself if time wasn’t such a precious commodity. 

The grudging respect your brain has begun to form for him is a fate worse than broken bones. You’ve been thinking sadly about how you plan to crush his incredible ego. Only after a lifetime of utterly deserved humiliation, sobbing, and spontaneous urination will Dirk reap what he has sown. Still, you feel little excitement. At the thought of. Jacking his swagger. Instead, the thoughts are only achieving more depression. Because even more respectable than his tawdry talent is his willingness to fulfill your every whim like a proper human bitch boy.

“Yes,” you say, drawing the consonant out in an unintentional hiss. “Now make the Jane bitch rounder,” you command, peering over his shoulder, face contorted in utter disgust. 

He erases her mammalian feeding lumps without comment and redraws them two sizes larger. Your lip curls into a sneer. “Not just the milk sacks,” you say with a grimace. “All of her.”

Dirk’s eyes flicker towards you over the rim of his shades for only a moment before he refocuses his attention on the laptop screen in front of him. “Bro,” he starts, deftly curving a formerly straight line with his tablet. Perfect. By which you mean, perfectly, nauseatingly, nasty. “She’s not even that big,” he continues. “Do you have some kind of fat fetish or do you just get kicks out of supersizing my friends?”

You make a retching noise in the back of your throat so he understands how genuinely disgusted you are at the thought alone.

Dirk shrugs. “It’s not like that’s even near the top of any of the freakiest fetish lists I’ve ever compiled.” There’s a pause while you try to think of a way to make a jab at the fact that this ass gobbling human tit spends his free time compiling lists about unusual sexual turn-ons. “Yeah, the stuff I’m into is way weirder,” he says smugly.

The slightest hint of a challenge sparks your interest. The need to one up him and prove something, anything to him, accelerates into overpowering. Now, the thought of his woeful ownage makes you sneer.

“Ha!” you say, where it hangs awkwardly in the air. “I’m into some kinky shit sure…” you almost don’t say it, but while Dirk may be a dimwitted heap of pointless trash, he’s yet to show himself as a judgemental asswipe. Besides, it isn’t as if he can tell anyone that you know. And if he did. Well, you’d kill him. To death. You swallow, resisting the urge to scan the room like some mentally unstable paranoid pussy. “Have you heard of…” you try to stop but your voice drops into a whisper anyway. “Kissing?”

The snort he makes is so obnoxiously derisive you want to tear the stupid flesh snout right off his smooth peachy face. “You don’t know shit about weird,” he says smugly. “I’ve been browsing 4chan unsupervised since I had enough hand eye coordination to control a mouse.”

“When was that?” you mock. “Just a few days ago?”

The laptop slides to the side as Dirk sets down his tablet. The bed is barely big enough for the two of you, even sitting. There isn’t much space between you, and you’re thinking that maybe there needs to be. 

Instead he inches closer. “I know more about fetishes and kissing than you could ever know,” he says confidently. The certainty is what sets you off. 

You scowl. “Prove it.” 

Everyone except you sees it coming when Dirk destroys the distance with a kiss. Who the hell is everyone? Stop fucking around with the fourth wall, goddamnit.

Your name is Caliborn and you are currently horrified beyond measurable belief at the challenge you have just incurred. To you. On you? Fuck. In you. Fuck words and fuck yourself and fuck the jizz gargling faggot who trounced in on his macaroni pony and invented this foul excuse for a language in the first place. Disgusting. Dirk presses his tongue into your mouth and your entire body stiffens, poised for recoil. This is probably the most fucked up thing you’ve ever done, including the bit with the matches and the cat when you were just a hatchling.

For some reason, that thought isn’t enough to stop you. 

Despite all the swift snark and combative camaraderie, Dirk kisses with calm confidence and gentle, easy movements, like he’s trying not to spook a wild hoofbeast. His interest remains unflagged despite your lack of response. You’ll give him one, eventually. When you can decide on whether to bite off his tongue, or tear off his soft, unprotected human genitalia. You’d laugh about his inferior anatomy if he wasn’t pressing it up against you, tongue teasing your mouth apart. When your forked tongue touches his a jolt rides your spine and detours between your legs.

Thoroughly emasculated, you wrench your face away, trembling with rage. This. Is. Grand. Theft. Snogging.

Dirk looks unimpressed. “Is that all you got?”

“Hah!” you feel rattled. Fuck. Not that rattled. “More like--the least I had!” 

Dirk quirks a brow which is precisely the same face he makes when he is unimpressed. The two of you are swiftly approaching that pivotal anime moment. The look of derision almost scuffs your shoulder.

“Pathetic,” Dirk tells you.

Your tongue flicks in agitation of it’s own volition, and you clamp your teeth down so quickly in an effort to prevent the tell of emotion that your fangs sink into the soft flesh of your tongue instead. You screech in what is decidedly the most masculine scream you’ve ever heard. More masculine than even the manliest man. Deeper, and more full of testosterone than even--wait, you’ve fucking got it. The perfect line.

You can’t see his eyes behind those stupid fucking oriental anime shades but his mouth gapes open and you grin with triumph. Ha fucking ha. What an ass felching fucksuck. You’re about to mock him viciously when he moves towards you. You backpedal on the blanket immediately--not because he intimidates you in any way but because, fuck--the last thing you need is to catch his pussy whipped posture. It’s probably contagious.

“Bro,” he says slowly. “Are you okay?”

It’s your turn to snort. It doesn’t have quite the same effect with the absence of a nose, but it is nonetheless efficient in expressing your overwhelming condescension.

“I’m fantastic, Dirk,” you snarl, but not without mild discomfort and a jetstream of red juices. “Finally speechless?” you say, with a lisp. At least. You try to say. Instead, when you hit the last stream of consonants blood spurts from your mouth like a fountain of fuckup. 

Belatedly, you realize you’ve been dribbling red water down your shirt like a drool sodden infant. You wipe your sleeve across your mouth and it comes back looking like it just went through the rinse cycle in an axe murderer’s washing machine. You wrench your shirt over your head in a fit of fury. Fuck. It sticks around your elbows where you proceed to flounder around like the dumbest piece of shit since Dirk’s birth. The shirt is drenched now, soaked through bright red. 

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuck!” It doesn’t actually hurt, at least not much, but it’s inconvenient and your outdated instincts send your pulse racing into a panic as if some mammalian ape could ever be the cause of real danger. 

The shirt finally eases off your skull thanks to--fuck no! You don’t need help from anyone, least of all some frail dumbass dancing a jig on the edge of death like an alcohol swigging irish leprechaun. You also don’t need him pressing up against the ventral scales on your back like some kind of cat in heat. You shove him away as soon as you regain sight, and he only staggers briefly before catching his footing. What the fuck. Has he spent years training in the art of being the most infuriatingly condescending douchebag on the this god forsaken shit stain of a planet?

“Stay the fuck away from me!” you shout. Or you try to. Instead you choke on blood gurgling in the back of your throat. 

You hobble over the sink where you can assess the damage in the mirror, which is about as bad as it looks. Your tongue is split--more than usual--and the blood still hasn’t stopped. You’re having a little trouble breathing because your face holes aren’t exactly made for optimum airflow, at least not total dependency. And besides, somehow there’s a fuck wave of blood sloshing from that orifice too. 

You spit into the sink and fill your mouth with water that is regrettably a touch too hot. You don’t have time to fuck with the primitive controls so you do it again and when you tip your head back to gargle you choke pathetically and try not to die.

“Jesus,” you hear from across the room. Luckily for Dirk, your need to survive overpowers your need to school the shit out of his insipid human shit-for-brains.

The gargling thing makes you gasp for air a second time, but how the fuck else are you supposed to get this useless red lava of bullshit out of your throat? When you tilt your head for the third time a hand clamps down on your shoulder and you almost decimate Dirk’s face with your claws on instinct. 

“Are you fucking insane?” he asks. Ha. You want to ask him the same question. You open your mouth to respond but water and blood pours out instead of the stinging verbal lashing you prepared. 

“No, don’t answer that. Don’t answer anything.” You ignore him because you’re the boss and he’s the bitch, not the other way around. 

“Shut up,” he says, and then wraps his free hand around the back of your cranium.

You try to kick back and throw him off balance but he evades you without an amount of ease that makes you want to tear out his throat. He shoves your head down so you’re facing the bane white sink. 

“Spit, asshole,” he commands. 

Never. You staunchly refuse on principle. Dirk sighs with frustration and some part inside of you fills with triumph. You aren’t sure why. Maybe you are. You don’t want to think about it. 

“Okay, don’t spit. Choke on your own blood like an imbecile.”

Eventually your body forces you to open your mouth, sputtering as you splatter the porcelain with red. You try to tip your head back up but Dirk’s grip is unflinching. You could break it easily, but right now you aren’t sure if it’s worth it. The effort, that is.

“Do all cherubs lack the capacity to learn from their mistakes, or are you special?” he asks dryly, and something inside you cracks at the words. 

You claw blindly behind your back and Dirk maneuvers around you. 

“If you tilt your head back you’re going to choke again. Just keep spitting, will you?”

You concede only because there isn’t much you can do to wreck him with blood fauceting out of your face. You spit a few more times. It doesn’t hurt. At all. Your threshold for pain is far superior than that of any weak minded human. The blood flow eases but doesn’t stop. When he wrenches your head upright you snarl as adrenaline courses through your veins.

“What now, doctor dickprince?” you manage, blood speckling the white tile on the floor when you speak. 

He promptly shoves a towel into your mouth and releases his hold on you. “Put some fucking pressure on it, that’s what.”

Jake English finds you in the Rockets room two hours later: face full of cotton, feelings full of sulk, teeth full of venom. You’re ready to spit it all over him at once. Everything sucks. He takes a look at your face and offers a sympathetic nod. 

“What happened to your face?”

“Your mom. That’s what. Bitch was so big she nearly suffocated me.” You sneer the best you can with a bent tongue. “With her jiggling thighs,” you clarify.

Fuck Dirk. Or even better, fuck that plushrump. If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t be stuck in this place, cast bound like some paper mache pussy! It’s been like this ever since you got in a fight with the washed up honky. You kick a chair over and contemplate ripping the game system out of the wall. Now your room is poison, too. Like they sprayed it down with formaldehyde and planted marigolds around the perimeter. That asshole thinks he can just piss everywhere, leaking stinky human pheromones all over your sheets. Your tongue flicks against the air and you flinch.

Jake shrugs. “No luck with Janey, eh?” 

Jane? That’s her name. Isn’t it? You nearly forgot her entire voluptuous existence. What a shapely distraction. You’ll message her. Which will be. Divine. You may not fully understand the inane courting practices of the lesser mammals, but you also don’t care. Courting is already a load of nonsensical bumfuckery. And you don’t have nearly enough time. To waste. You don’t chase after dogs, bitches come to you. Ha. And how they will come to you when they finally see you as the strong, special-minded cherub stud you’ve always been. They’ll come at you so needy, with their tongues lolling out of their mouths like the goddamned thirsty bitches they are. 

Jane should count herself lucky if you even offer that dehydrated female one sip!

With your blazing sex appeal, you’ll have to construct a sodding dog house just to store all of your desperate, cherub-horny whores. It’s going to be like you just mixed up a cotton candy milkshake and now, without realizing it, you can’t get these lazy bitches out of your yard! Not that you have a fucking yard. Or even a porch. All you have in this shit city is the puke colored apartment you live in with your sister.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” you admit. “I have tried everything. Literally. Everything.”

Jake tilts his head and scrunches up his face as he sits down beside you. Is this subliminal messaging? That secret language made of only the body? Jake touches your shoulder and your entire body tenses, poised to strike. You resist the urge to crush the phone in your hands or blend into the wall. Cause that’s a thing. That’s started happening. Another hit for the shitlist of fuckery you don’t want to think about.

“Uh, about that mate...I don’t think Janey is too appreciative of, er, your enthusiasm.”

“Ha.” Jake is a simple minded turd. “Jane enjoys more than just my enthusiasm. She enjoys…” you give Jake the most lascivious look you can manage as you gesture to yourself. “All of me.”

On the way back to your room, Jake jogs to keep up as you drag your gimp leg behind you, considering each letter with a carefully pressed claw. You aren’t going to unspell anything. It’s going to be like an epic poem written by one of those guys that’s really good at words, or something. Like Dr. Suess. Yes.

Jake’s voiceflap penetrates your fantasy like a pin in a popped balloon. “Mate, shouldn’t you be using crutches?”

“I can’t! Just--,” you scream in frustration. “Shut the fuck up.”

You can’t walk back to your room, be a lyrical genius, and tell Jake to shut the fuck up, all at once. Too many fucking things. You zone in on the keyboard on your phone and narrowly avoid overturning some old hag in a wheelchair. Old people think they own everything! You shove some kid in a hospital bed down the hallway when he accidentally blocks your path. 

“Earth to Australian shitbuscuit,” you shout with a scowl. “Is this message topic adequately relevant to Jane’s tedious female interests?”

You stare at the message for several smug moments before a too-cool voice interrupts you. The face above you is like Dirk’s, but a paler, and the shades are different. You’re feeling...deja vu? Either that, or you're having a stroke. Can cherubs have strokes? You don’t even know. Trolls and humans monopolize the movie industry. This is why representation matters. Fuck.

“Going to send it, pussy?” 

The moment occurs in slow motion. It reminds you of the scene from that bad Adam Sandler movie you watched with Calliope where he wore an obesity suit and flopped his milk sacks around at a cum curdlingly slow speed. It’s just as ugly. Just as revolting. And you hate it just as much. But just like before, you do nothing. Just like with fat man-woman Adam Sandler. All you can do is watch.

First comes his finger, pointing at your phone. You watch in abject horror as his pink little flesh carrot pokes closer towards your mobile. His nails are blunt and unthreatening, but it makes it that much easier for him to smash his grubby finger against the “send” button. The message sends instantly. The one time your network is actually working. 

Jake’s goofy voice is worse than nails on a chalkboard. “Oi, so you and Strider have already met?”

The sound of his name flips a primal switch in your brain. “Strider?” you say. You might be salivating. Because of the tongue wound, not because you want to suffocate Strider and swallow him whole. 

“That’s me,” says the towering douchebag. 

Strider grins, taps his sunglasses, provokes you. Even in real life he conceals himself, hiding behind anonymity like a shade-parking coward.

“Strider, as in--?”

He doesn’t allow you to finish. “The famous movie director and original screenplay writer? Sbaj Saga, with Ben Stiller? Yeah, that’s all me.”

Strider grins, untucks his thumbs and gestures to all of himself like he isn’t another bottle-blond failure. His height is below average for a human male, but he’s still bigger than a cherub. No contest. There’s a sound of violence forming in your throat, dark and agitated. The noise almost resembles a growl. Something closer to a rattle, maybe. You can’t control it. That’s another one of them. Stupid fucking. Things. That you can never stop from keep happening.

“No. No. You bedazzled nutsack. No!” You want to kill everything. “Strider as in Strider The Pervasive. As in the stupid fucknugget that spends most of his free time wanking over Japanese cartoons and sewing himself sex plushies like a wet widowed prostitute.”

Strider stalls for less than a second. The pause is nearly imperceptible before he speaks. Do they train for this shit? Being insulted by strangers in the hallway without losing your cool 101? “That would be my younger brother,” he says after clearing his throat.

You’ve had enough of humans wallowing in their grotesque emotions. It’s time to jack Strider up and steal his swagger. You’re ready to tear your way through his front and come out the other side. Room 413 swings open and you’re seeing double.

“Who invited you to the bologna party?” Dirk asks, crossing his arms. “Miss me that much?” His smile is taunting you, egging you on. “I’m plushrump,” he admits with a shrug. 

Tall Strider looks at Jake over the rim of his shades. “I feel like this is a pivotal moment, but I missed the buildup,” he whispers.

Every feeling you’ve ever felt explodes and multiplies with renewed fury. 

You land the first punch, and regrettably, Dirk can take a hit. He wipes at his jaw and smiles. It’s like the start of a Naruto fight. Isn’t he supposed to be diseased? Shouldn’t the cancer be rearing it’s ugly head and killing him any second now? You stare at the blood on your knuckles; you can’t resist the compulsion to taste it. Now there’s blood rushing in your ears. Shit, you don’t even have ears. 

“Now, now,” says Strider senior, but he doesn’t actually do anything to stop you. 

Dirk lands a hit right in your open mouth, grazing your fangs and sore tongue. The text alert goes off as he smacks the phone from your hand, where it sails across the tiled floor and cracks against the side of the wall.

Why isn’t murder legal? Life fucking sucks. When you are finished with Dirk, he will be nothing. Nothing. Except. Maybe. A pretty, broken human. Petty, you mean. You’re gonna turn him inside out before he finishes folding his shades, and leave him in a puddle of his own jizz with nothing but the taste of your saliva to sour his sweet human mouth. 

Wait. What?


End file.
